From Spacious Skies to Perilous Fight
by Mayhem21
Summary: America's explosive appearance on the national stage sent ripples of shock throughout the world. As he grapples to find his place as the Personification of the United State of America, dark forces begin to stir once more. Sequel to "In Need of Representation". Update 7/9/19: Finished story to be posted during the WIP Big Bang, summer 2019.
1. Chapter 1

_I started this back in November 2016 during NaNoWriMo and it's FINALLY DONE! This is crazy, dudes. I'm super pumped to finally be posting it! I hope you enjoy!_

 _Story is COMPLETED, new chapters will be posted on a regular basis._

* * *

 _July 24, 2015_

 _Washington, D.C._

Weary blue eyes watched intently as the assembled Nations began to pack up their things to leave. Papers vanished into briefcases, phones were taken off silent, and ties were quickly being loosened.

The usual groups soon assembled.

Spain wandered over to a naggingly familiar looking South Italy, hands flying through the air as he began to chatter at the perpetually irate Nation.

The three NATO members of Scandinavia were clustered together near a window, Norway hovering and fussing over an embarrassed Iceland as Denmark cheerfully teased them both.

Near the far end of the table, France was perched, leaning over a glowering England. The Gallic nation made a small, abbreviated gesture towards the front of the table, head tilting. For a brief moment, earthy green eyes flicked forward, only to harden and turn away.

Alfred let out the small breath he'd been holding as England pointedly finished assembling his belongs and strode out, refusing to look at the conference host.

"He'll come around," a soft voice commented.

A small smile crossed his face. Turning, Alfred gave his brother a bright smile. "Oh, I'll win him over eventually," he vowed, "whether he likes it or not!"

Shaking his head, Canada returned the smile, and then looked out at the now nearly empty conference room.

"It went well," he stated, voice quickly cheerful. "I'm not sure what the others would have said if your first time as host had ended the way so many of our meetings do – with complete chaos. It's wonderful that you managed to avert that." Canada dragged back the chair closest to America and dropped into with a relieved sigh.

"Hah." Alfred snorted. "As much as it's burning some of them up inside, they're happy I'm here now."

Canada blinked, a hint of America's feelings of _amusement-irritation-exasperation_ flitting at the edge of his consciousness. "Problems?" he asked after a moment, a flicker of worry in his eyes.

Alfred paused, startled at the sudden worry in his brother's gaze. He focused inward for a moment, reaching for that strange spot between them, a place where North and South blurred together and _me_ and _him_ became _us_. A link, a connection they were only just starting to explore.

 _Worry-concern-I won't let them hurt him!_

"It's okay," he finally said as the intensity of his brother's care and concern washed over him. His Hollywood smile softened into something warmer. It was – nice – knowing that someone was watching out for him, that someone _cared_ enough to worry about his problems, both big and small. "It's, like, 99 percent jealousy. I've gotten to have more of a personal life than a lot of those guys and it stings. Plus, they're mad at me for not "doing my job" and they're mad that no one ever came around to _tell_ me about my job and they're mad that the first time I properly met another Nation I was kicking ass and taking names. Mostly, though," his voice dropped slightly and a hint of smugness entered his voice, "they're mad and scared that even though I haven't been around to help, my people still managed to kick all their butts."

"That sounds about right," Canada agreed. Then sighed as his mind drifted back. Three months ago, as far as anyone knew, America didn't exist. It was a nation without a soul, a global superpower with no unifying presence or identity. No singular personification to meet and negotiate with.

And then terrorists attacked, swearing to end their kind forever. They thought they'd figured out how to exterminate them and the small group of Nations that had gathered in the capital of the state of Texas became their hostages – and their first test subjects.

The terrorists missed Canada and Prussia, leaving the pair trapped behind the police line and frantic with worry about their families and friends. And that the secrecy of their existence may have been breached.

And then – a phone call. A strange voice swearing he could help end it and save everyone they cared about.

In the end? America did exist. He had swept in out of nowhere and started exterminating the terrorists one by one with ruthless efficiency. He rallied and won the hearts of the Micronations then personally freed the captured and tortured Nations. He donated his own blood to save Japan from the toxins that had been pumped into him and refused to stand to the side when a disoriented Russia lashed out to protect himself.

A Nation where they thought there was none. A man of wit and power, mercy and death instead of the weak willed slob most assumed he would have been. A single soul bearing the weight of the most contrary and chaotic people on the planet. A person with the strength and will to survive being pulled in every direction during his every waking moment with no support, no sympathetic ear, and no true understanding of his own nature.

Alfred F. Jones. The United States of America. His sudden explosive appearance on the world stage had sent a tidal wave of shock to every corner of the earth. His capital had been swarming with Nations within a week after the Incident, the personifications of the world each wanting to meet him, take his measure – and see just how much they could bend him to their will.

The idea was sound – who wouldn't want the USA at their beck and call? But America didn't play along. He smiled and laughed, teased and argued. And every time someone tried to pin him down he danced out of their grasp like a leaf on the wind, refusing to be bound to anyone else's will.

Ultimately, America had taken to the duties of a Nation with relative ease, eagerly aided by the government department that had been created decades earlier to try and accomplish the work of a representative with none of the abilities and insights that were a natural part of their being.

He'd begun attending meetings within short order of being officially "hired" by the United States of America as its National Representative. Canada had done the best he could to assist his brother, giving him tips on how to handle the different Nations and about working with the humans that made up his government.

Canada and Jennifer Williams, America's human predecessor, had felt more than a little apprehension about how much policy and politics the newly discovered Nation would need to learn in order to keep up. They quickly realized, however, that he already had a strong understanding of the complex topics.

Canada had pressed him on it after the first month. America had sheepishly admitted that one of the ways he'd been "passing the time" over the past few centuries had been to occasionally enroll in a college or university somewhere within his borders and learn a new subject. His personal interests, he explained, lay in the hard sciences, but he made a point to get a deeper understanding of other fields such as economics, literature, and art. Of course, the transition hadn't been perfectly smooth sailing. America's understanding of many topics was solely academic and did not always translate well into real world applications.

But in the end, a mere three months after the terrible incident in Texas, America was already hosting his own world meeting. It had been on the books for over a year and much of the logistics and planning were already in place. His government, however, had been very happy to dump the more social elements into America's lap, leaving him to manage the parties, the bar crawls, and making sure everyone's tab got paid, all on top of the regular daytime duties of hosting, diplomacy, and negotiation.

If he looked closely, Canada could see the lines of strain on his brother's face, the result of three nights of chasing and wrangling Nations as well as day-long meetings about policy that always descended into endless circular arguments. None of the attending Nations had gotten much rest but America had definitely gotten the least.

"A-hem."

Canada jumped, startled. Beside him, America twitched, quickly controlling whatever impulse was running through him. A wary look flickered in Canada's eyes and he couldn't help but lean in closer, ready to defend his newfound brother from whatever followed.

Alfred took a deep, calming breath as he brushed soothing fingers against Canada's arm. He straightened in his seat and allowed his "Official Host!" smile to cross his face as he looked up at Germany looming next to him. The smile faltered slightly, as Germany's studious face gazed intently back at him.

"I apologize for bothering you both," the straight-laced Nation began, his voice echoing the apologetic sentiment. "I, ah, wanted to see if you wished for any feedback on how the meeting went. I do not mean to imply that you did poorly," he added quickly, a slight frown crossing his face.

The fake Host smile faded from Alfred lips, replaced with a look of genuine fondness. He hadn't had a great deal of time to interact with Germany since the Austin Incident but their encounters thus far had been . . . nice. And notably lacking in the strange mixture of detached curiosity, morbid fascination, and nervous suspicion that typically filled the gaze of the different Nations he'd been meeting.

Germany was meticulous, obsessed with procedure and rules, prone to shouting when he lost his temper, and was honestly more down-to-earth than most of the other Nations. Once you moved past official business and entered the social realm, the overly muscled Germany was delightfully awkward. No pretense, no layers of suggestion and innuendo. Just someone who wanted to have a good time and drink beer.

Plus, Italy considered Germany his best friend. That definitely meant something.

Alfred grinned up at Germany and waved him towards the chair on his other side before leaning back again in his own. "No problem, dude." He watched, waiting as the man sat down, setting his briefcase on the table in front of him. "I'd appreciate the feedback. I mean, I've heard that you actually get stuff _accomplished_ at these meetings, so you clearly have a Doctorate or something in Nation-wrangling."

Germany blinked, surprised and pleased at the unexpected compliment. He had observed that America had proven to be one of the more attentive attendees since he'd begun attending Nation meetings. Despite being thrown into the veritable shark tank, he'd taken to his position as a leading Nation with apparent ease, handling the criticisms leveled at him for his prolonged absence with wit and enviable charm. America wasn't exactly _liked_ by many but given the jealousy and irritation many held for his people and his power in general, the rapport he was developing with so many Nations was stunning.

Feeling unexpectedly self-conscious about America's friendliness and open admiration, Germany hurriedly cleared his throat and opened his briefcase, pulling out the notes he'd assembled during the meeting. As he shut the case once again, he could see how America's eyebrows had shot up at the thick stack of notes.

"Damn, Germany," Alfred commented after a moment, eyes still on the notes. "Maybe I should hire you to do my taxes. Detailed, much?"

"I wanted to be thorough," Germany responded, voice going tight.

"No, no, it's totally fine." America sat up straight and reached out to drag his neglected legal pad closer so he could take notes. "Lay it on me."

Over the next half-hour, Germany went through his observations about the NATO meeting, moving from point to point in rapidfire. America took diligent notes, occasionally breaking in with a question or comment while Canada listened with fascination. He hadn't realized how _much_ Germany did to try and minimize the near-anarchy that was so characteristic of Nation meetings.

There were general notes (providing a personally curated list of current art exhibits, attractions, and restaurant recommendations), notes regarding important cultural differences (remember that Nations like France and Italy expect to do just as much business in social settings as official meetings), and suggestions for ways to correct some of the minor hitches that had arisen (Spain will never be ready to present first thing in the morning).

When Germany turned over the last sheet of paper, he was almost disappointed to see the table surface appear. This kind of interaction with America, one outside of business but not purely social, was more . . . comfortable . . . for him then trying to make small talk at an official function or in a bar. He was still getting a feel for this intriguing man, still trying to gauge his likes and dislikes, what topics or settings got him excited or agitated. For his part, America had given every outward indication that he enjoyed Germany's company but he could be misreading that thanks to the man's generally friendly attitude.

"Well, I suppose that's everything," Germany concluded, still staring at the table.

"Apparently." Alfred stretched his arms up over his head and then his legs under the table. After holding this pose for few moments, he let his limbs go slack. One arm went behind his head while the other reached for his tie, pulling the Windsor knot lose. "Germany," he began, getting the other Nation's attention. " _Thank you_ for this." He grinned and folded his other arm behind his head. "You didn't have to and I really appreciate the help."

"Yes, well," Germany picked up the notes and began to shuffle them into a tidy pile. "It helps everyone when the meetings are run efficiently." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see America and Canada bite back a chuckle, a nearly identical look of amusement passing over their faces.

"That is very true," Canada agreed, eyes glowing with delight and admiration.

There was a sudden soft knock on the door. Alfred picked up his phone from where it sat face down on the table. 6 PM already?

"Come on in," he called, setting the device back down. He threaded his fingers back together behind his head, curious to see who had knocked.

"Ah, America, I was looking for- Germany!" Italy beamed as he peeked into the room and spotted his friend. Bounding into the room, door swinging shut behind him, he skidded to a stop next to his friend. Italy scowled, glaring at them with narrowed eyes as he shook an accusing finger at the small group of blondes. "Shame," he scolded. "Shame on all of you! Work is over! We should be eating dinner, not sitting in a stuffy room."

"We were completing some final business," Germany retorted. He glanced down at the stack of notes he still held in his hands and then wordlessly extended them to America. Once he had taken the papers, Germany popped open his briefcase and retrieved his mobile phone. Awakening and unlocking it with a click of a button and a few gestures, he grimaced inwardly at the number of text messages and missed calls.

Exasperated, Italy leaned forward and closed his hands over the hand holding the mobile phone, pushing it downwards. "No. More. Business!" he exclaimed. He swung his head over to look at the twins, who were watching them with undisguised interest. "Please, you have to help me!" he pleaded. "Germany will keep working and working and working if you don't! And I want to go try that Italian restaurant down the street. The menu outside says they serve real _pasta al pomodoro_!"

Alfred dropped Germany's stack of notes into his own briefcase and snapped it shut with a decisive _click_. "Well, it certainly wouldn't do for anyone to starve, not on my watch!" He and Italy exchanged matching grins. "If you're talking about the place I think you are, you're in for a treat! Real _bruschetta_ , imported _langoustine_ , and even _biscotti_ dunked in Tuscan wine, _zeppola_ , and _pignoli_ for dessert."

Releasing Germany's mobile phone, Italy clapped his hands together in excitement, his eyes turning bright and full of cheer.

"You must come eat with us!" he insisted. "Then you can tell us all about how they prepare the food. It is different than back home in Italy, but still so tasty. I can't wait! Come with us. You will have a good time - I promise."

Alfred was surprised and touched by the invitation. "Sounds good to me," he replied, voice light. He glanced over at Canada, inquiringly cocking his head.

Canada blushed slightly, then gave a small nod.

"Awesome." Alfred grinned at the other Nations and seized his briefcase. "Lemme go drop this off in my room upstairs. Meet you in the lobby in, what, 5, 10 minutes?"

"Very well," Germany agreed. He rose and gently took Italy's arm. "We will see you there."


	2. Chapter 2

"It's just so . . . _heavy_ ," Italy commented in a fascinated voice. He tilted his head to one side as he watched America demolish a plate full of fried sticks of mozzarella cheese between bites of a large bowl of shrimp scampi. "And you're eating _so much_ of it," he added, then took a bite of his (excellent) _spaghetti alla puttanesca._

Alfred took a moment to swallow before responding, a look of mock offense on his face. "Watch it, I'm still growing here!"

Italy waved a hand, a cheery smile crossing his face. "I do not mean to offend you! It's wonderful how you love my food. It is what we do best. But Americans also do it very well. Different, but still very, very good. I wish all nations just made wonderful food and beautiful art and then we could all get along all the time! Wouldn't that be nice? America and Italy together. We will teach everyone to make pasta. But first you must tell me, Italy, how you make my food, different but delicious."

"Well, it evolved as different kinds of ingredients were and were not available," Alfred commented. Glancing down at his hands, he considered sucking the last of the cheesy grease of them. Regretfully concluding this would be a horrible breach in manners, he picked his napkin up off his lap and began to wipe his hands. "Time was another factor," he continued. " _Alfredo_ sauce was developed from _al burro_ because lots of home chefs didn't have time to perfectly mix the butter and parmesan. Adding cream cut the time down a lot and _bam_ ," he slapped the table, causing the glasses and plates to rattle, " _fettucini alfredo_ is born."

"Have you made extensive study of cooking?" Germany asked, pausing as he worked his way through his plate of _lobster fra diavolo_.

"Me? Nah," Alfred shook his head. He reached out and picked up another soft piece of bread and started mopping up the last remaining bits of the zesty lemon sauce left in the bottom of his bowl. "I just like food," he grinned. "I mean, I've worked as a waiter and done a spell washing dishes." He snickered suddenly, the hand holding his bread pausing momentarily. "I remember this one time, back in the 1950s or so, I was cleaning dishes at this posh steak restaurant. Just me and the other guy, Mark, working on a _mountain_ of dishes. We had the radio on cranking out some rock'n'roll over the sound of the water and the clanging of dishes and pots and stuff - it was super loud. Anyways, we're cleaning and rocking away when the maitre d' comes in looking all shook up. Turns out the place had been held up and we were none the wiser! Crazy, right?"

"How frightening!" Italy's eyes went wide.

"No one got hurt and the guy didn't make it a block before the cops nabbed him," Alfred's eyes went wistful for a moment before he returned to scraping up the last remnants of his dinner. "So it worked out okay and it makes for an interesting story."

Germany wiped his mouth with his napkin. "It sounds as though you have pursued a wide array of professions before now," he commented, blue eyes watching the other man intently.

Alfred popped the bread into his mouth, chewing slowly as his mind raced. This, more than anything else, was the reason the other Nations were so upset. He'd had opportunities and freedom they could only dream of. And now, after the horrible mess that was Austin, he'd been given a _choice_ by his government on whether or not to work with them as their official representative. He swallowed and took a small sip from the water glass in front of him.

"It was a good way to keep busy," he began, watching Germany and Italy carefully from behind his usual cheery mask. "And to learn how all the different parts of the U.S., of me, I guess you could say, really work." He took another sip of water then set the glass down firmly. "The way things work on Wall Street in New York City is really different from running a cattle ranch in Oklahoma. Miners in West Virginia have different challenges facing them than inner city communities in Los Angeles. Add in all the different climates and types of land and the passage of time." He shrugged as his voice trailed off, frowning slightly, unsure how to continue to explain how important it was to him to travel and really _experience_ the differences within his borders. He may not truly understand all of them but it was important that he at least _try_.

"You have so much land," Italy responded in a thoughtful voice. "And so many different people. The native population, the original British settlers, all the different people from all over the world." He shook his head and gave Alfred a warm smile. "It would take a long time just to list all of them!"

"And it's not really all that different from the work the rest of us do," Canada added softly, speaking up for the first time in a long while. "You've just been working on a different scale than us and more directly with people."

Nodding slowly in agreement, Germany gave Alfred a rueful smile.

"Indeed," he agreed. "It sounds . . . very similar. I must confess, I wish I'd had similar freedom in choosing my activities." A dark shadow passed over the German's eyes. "Unfortunately, things took a different turn."

Alfred winced internally. The modern German state, even accounting for the changes in government of the last century, was very young compared to most countries in the world. And the personification in front of him had spent most of the twentieth century either embroiled in war or suffering under the weight of losing said wars.

"Yeah, well," he hurried to say, wanting to dispel the unpleasant memories creeping up in the other man's mind, "in the end I'm here now. And come on," he gave the Europeans a saucy wink, dramatically fluttering his eyelashes, "everything's better now that the Hero is here!"

Italy burst into a fit of giggles at his exaggerated actions. His merriment continued for several minutes, an increasingly embarrassed Germany trying harder and harder to silence the chortling Italian with no success. Each time one spurt of giggling seemed to slow another would begin.

By the time Italy was finally able to get himself under control, nearly every eye in the restaurant was on him as he sat with his head buried in his arms. His shoulders heaved as he took deep breaths, slowly bringing himself under control. Finally, he peeped up, head rocking to the side.

"I am very happy!" he beamed, an occasional spurt of laughter escaping his lips. "I am very happy that you are here and that we can be friends!"

"It makes me happy as well!" America grinned. His heart was pounding in chest and the tightness that had been coiling inside him since the meeting started finally began to loosen. He hadn't expected to make friends in this new job, not outside Canada, at least.

"We are all very happy," Germany stated, teeth clenched. His checks had a noticeably red tinge to them, hinting at how embarrassed he was that Italy was attracting so much attention from the other diners. "In fact, we can be even happier if we sit quietly and stop attracting so much attention!"

Alfred bit back a bark of amusement. Germany was far more sensitive than his almost overwhelming physical presence suggested. "Dessert?" he suggested, trying to keeping his voice low.

Italy sat back up with a sudden bounce and leaned close to Alfred.

"You said earlier they had real _zeppola_ , and _pignoli_! We should try some!" He clapped his hands together in excitement. This was _without question_ the best meal he'd ever had in the United States. America had been so considerate, making sure they had wonderful Italian-American food. It was different from back home but still good. And America himself was funny! And happy and helpful. So different from so many of the others.

"What about you?" Alfred asked, turning to Canada. He raised an inquiring brow. "You've been quiet all evening."

"Oh, sorry," Canada replied in startled surprise. He hadn't realized anyone had noticed. "It's, um . . " His voice trailed off and he held up his phone, which had been resting in his lap. "France has been texting off and on for the last hour or so. England seems to be in quite a mood and nothing France has tried has gotten him out of it yet. He's not used to failing to at least affect England, so now _France_ is in a bad mood." He looked at his phone, contemplating with a frown the shift in tone the messages had been taking throughout dinner. "I think they're starting to feed off each other."

"Perhaps an intervention is needed," Germany speculated with a grimace. Delicate emotional states were an anathema to him. The sulking and whining that often resulted from such prissy moods inevitably dragged everyone down and he'd yet to find a book that told him how to fix it.

"I can stay for dessert but I should probably go chase them down afterwards," Canada concluded, still looking at his phone. "I think they've been in a bar for a while now and that-" he paused, "that will not end well."

Alfred nodded thoughtfully, remember how morose and confused England had been in Austin back in April after just a few hours of drinking. "Well, considering his mood is probably my fault, maybe I should go get him," he murmured, brow furrowed as he considered the idea.

Canada looked a little alarmed. "Actually, I think you should leave him be for now," he hurried to say. A hint of anxiety appeared in his lilac eyes. "At least until we figure out exactly why you bother him so much. This is all very strange. It's not like him."

Germany gave Canada a disbelieving look.

"I mean," a blush started to spread over the northern Nation's cheeks. "He's keeping it all a secret. If he's upset with someone, you know _why_. Or at least, up until now." He gave a mournful, apologetic look at America. "At this point, anyone else would have gotten an earful. I have some, um, theories but it's mostly speculation." Canada winced slightly inside. He didn't want America to know about some of the nasty rumor-mongering England had started engaging in lately.

"Maybe he slept funny," America sighed. He reached over and patted his brother's back. "Probably got that stick up his butt lodged somewhere extra unpleasant."

"Oh, God, don't even say that around him," Canada groaned, dropping his head into his hands. He sighed. He loved America, truly, but things had gotten very _complicated_ since he had joined them. "It's going to take a while, especially since France still doesn't trust you either," he muttered, voice muffled by his hands. He raised his head slightly, peeking up over slender fingertips. "And you're leaving in a few hours and I'm not going to be able to go or help you or anything if they're really in a state."

"Hey, s'all right!" Alfred gave his brother another pat. "It's not like the U.S. and Japan aren't already allies. This'll be a piece of cake!"

Italy giggled softly.

"Not quite," he teased.

Alfred blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face.

A waiter suddenly appeared and set down two plates with the promised desserts on them.

"I went ahead and ordered," Italy boasted. He reached out and picked up one of the _pignoli_ , eyeing the almond flavored macaroon with hungry eyes. "You'll have to tell them if you want cake," he continued. "I think they had some kind of cake on there if you don't want the _pignoli_ or _zeppola_."

Alfred stared at Italy for a moment then, much to Germany's horror and embarrassment, let out a loud roar of laughter.

"Nice," Alfred howled. "Very punny." Grinning at the cheery Italian, he reached out and picked up one of the _zeppola_ , custard leaking out of the puffy doughnut.

Germany reached out for one of the _pignoli_.

"You are going to see Japan?" he asked, not wanting to overstep his bounds but very much hoping to move America and Italy away from puns and jokes and all the ways they were trying to make each other laugh (and causing such a scene).

America nodded, still clutching the sweet doughnut. He hurried to swallow. "Yeah, we're going over some defense stuff." He shrugged and took another bite of the _zeppola_ with the side of his fork.

"It's been a long time since I went to see Japan," Italy commented wistfully. An idea struck him, sending a current of electricity through him. He was so struck that he dropped part of the _pignoli_ onto his plate. "America!" he gasped, leaning forward to stare intently at the other nation. "We should all go together! You and Japan can do the business stuff very quickly and then we can go sightseeing!"

Turning, Italy grasped Germany's coat sleeve, giving it an excited tug. "Germany, you should come with us! It will be so much fun! Us and America in Japan! It will be like old times but even better!"

Grabbing at Italy's hand, Germany tried desperately to calm the other nation down, inwardly horrified at Italy's imposition.

The Mediterranean nation refused to be swayed and deliberately drove forward with his steamroller of words, methodically grinding Germany's protests to mush. He would not be denied.

Alfred grinned at Canada, who merely shook his head and glanced skyward, lips moving in a silent supplication.

"I'm glad you won't be alone," Canada murmured.

"Should be fun," Alfred agreed. He grabbed one of the few remaining macaroons and pushed it at his brother. "Go find France and England before they hurt my city," he ordered, tone light. "I got this," he continued, gesturing at the table, "and I think I'm in good hands."

Nodding in agreement, Canada rose, tucking his phone in his pocket then picking up the business jacket he'd slung over the back of the chair, macaroon in the other hand. "I'll see you when you get back," he promised. "And I'll let you know how things go with England."

"Sounds great," Alfred replied, a wry smile on his face. "See you later!"


	3. Chapter 3

"I am not saying you need to _like_ him, Angleterre, but you must at least be willing to work _with_ him," France snapped. The tightening grip he had on his drink threatened to cause the glass to shatter. Which would be unfortunate considering it was good French beer, something that could be hard to find in North America.

England scowled, refusing to concede even the slightest bit of ground. "You're one to talk," he sneered. "You don't even think he's _sane_. Prussia made a point to fill me in on your little rant back in Austin. I believe the keywords there were: lunacy, madness, _unstable_."

"I did not say he was _sane_ ," France retorted. Dear God, would a day ever come when England actually listened to him? "I said you have to _work_ with him. And so far you have done all you could not to!"

England tossed back the remains of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the battered table of the dingy bar they'd found. "I'm here, aren't I?" he growled. "I could have sent Scotland or Wales. Hell, even Northern Ireland's presence would have been sufficient if I wanted to show a mere token of support."

He'd considered it. He'd held his phone, finger hovering over the "Call" button, silently contemplating shoving Wales across the pond to deal with that- that- _insufferable_ , useless, lying son of a whore.

America hadn't been ignorant all these centuries. He couldn't have been. England _refused_ to believe that _twaddle_. It didn't happen, not to _their_ kind. _None_ of them got that kind of luxury.

Which begged the question: What was America's end game?

Had it all been a ruse? Had he been working with those bastards in Austin all along just to gain the trust of the world he'd ignored?

Or was it something else? Some larger scheme by a desperate American government?

Who had even confirmed that America truly was "America"? He was a personification, England was willing to concede that, but they had only his word that he wasn't some new Micronation with delusions of grandeur!

Whatever was going on, England thought grimly, it was a cruel plan, one that counted on hoodwinking Canada into believing every bit of it. He had raised the boy, after all. He would have heard if there was a missing brother. He had sent several agents into investigating this "Alfred F. Jones, United States of America". Whatever the truth was, he would expose it.

"You are far too prideful to send your brothers," France hissed, interrupting England's train of thought. "Especially North - he is still but a child." Draining the last of his own drink, France glared momentarily at the bottom of his mug before waving for the bored waitress to bring them another round.

The pair sat in sulky, bitter silence for several long minutes, stirring only when new drinks arrived at the tiny booth they had crammed themselves into.

"Regardless of my personal feelings," England began after taking a long gulp from the new bottle of beer, "America saved my life in Austin. My magic demands that I repay that debt."

France rolled his eyes. Magic. It was tragic how tightly the children of the British Isles clung to that fantasy.

"Demands it," England snapped. "Or my life is forfeit." He scowled again. "As such, I will thank you to keep your froggy nose out of my personal business."

"But it is not personal, is it, my dear Angleterre?" France drawled. "Not as long as you are part of the European Union. You may have citizens clamoring to leave but they are a mere rabble. What happens to you and what you _do_ impacts the rest of us."

"Hmph." England focused on his drink. France may call them rabble but there was a feeling in his gut about them . . . It reminded him too much of another 'mere rabble'. Well, that rabble had gone on to-

No.

No, he would not dwell on the past. That path was perilous to their kind. Dwell too much and be left behind. Or worse, destroyed for refusing to move on along with the rest of the world. "What do you want from me, then?" he finally demanded.

France preened slightly, pleased to finally (finally!) have England do something other than snap and snarl. "I, no, _we_ would all benefit if you would but treat America as an equal. Not as a friend," France hurried to add. "Certainly, you should not feel compelled to act out a more intimate relationship than you truly feel. But you must work _with_ America, not merely show up to meetings and harass his staff."

A grim look crossed France's face.

"I do not know if he can be trusted. Truly, his actions in Austin _appear_ quite heroic, very Hollywood, you could say. But his plan was sparse and full of risk. He demanded obedience from persons he did not even know and after," France paused, taking a small sip to re-wet his throat, "after he moved from one emotion to another like lightning. He lashed out at some and coddled others seemingly at random.

"There are enough of our kind," France continued in a dark voice, "that have been so abused by their people that their minds have shattered under the strain. Are we truly to think that America, isolated and unaware of his exact nature for centuries, has somehow avoided all such damage?"

England gave a slow nod. "Even if we assume his story is true, his Civil War was quite harsh, even by our standards. And the scars of that conflict can still be seen to this day."

"You need not face him alone," France offered. "Or at least, not without allies. But we must all work together to understand him and what dangers he poses to us all."

"You have spoken with others about this?" England asked with narrowing eyes.

"Some, although not so plainly," France replied. His expression turned contemplative. "Those who were not in Austin are far less concerned about him. He fits so well, at a glance, in the stories told in his films and television shows. And the threat made to our kind in Texas seems almost farcical upon retelling."

An icy fist formed in England's gut and his mind suddenly flashed back to burning poison, sharp knives, and angry fists. His grip on his beer slipped slightly, causing him to fumble the drink. "If there are any who doubt what happened that day," he snarled, forcing his mind away from the nightmares that had plagued him since that awful, awful day, "send them to me, and I will make it clear to them how wrong they are."

France winced internally, scolding himself for forcing England to relieve those memories, even for an instant. England and Japan had come the closest to death that day out of all of the nations present. The pain and suffering the terrorists had inflicted on them remained close to their minds.

His neighbor, France knew, had been struggling to cope with his close brush with a permanent death. Even now, his friend was as white as a ghost and a faint tremor could be seen in his hands.

France's phone, lying forgotten the table between them, suddenly buzzed, the force of which caused the phone to slide along the slick table surface.

Each Nation started in their seats, jostling the table. England's grip slipped causing his bottle to precariously approach the edge of the table before he was able to establish a firm hold on the half-full container. France's hand jerked, causing his glass to totter back and forth, the pale liquid sloshing out onto the table.

Swearing, France quickly scooped his phone up and grabbed some of the thin paper napkins sitting at the edge of the table, dropping some on the pool of beer and using the rest to form a small barrier to contain the liquid.

England stumbled to his feet, surprising himself slightly with how unsteady his gate was, and wobbled over to another booth to grab more napkins. When he returned, he found France reading something on his phone.

"Canada is outside," France announced. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "He seems to think we cannot be trusted to behave ourselves around alcohol."

"Well, he's definitely right about you," England replied. He held the napkins out to France. "I never have a problem with alcohol."

When Canada finally entered the bar, England and France were well embroiled in an argument about an incident involving two bottles of sherry, a cask of ale, and a rather indignant goat.

"Do I even want to know?" Canada sighed as he approached the booth and heard the topic under debate.

France took a deep breath, drawing his shoulders back, ready to launch into a full telling of the nefarious tale.

"No, just no," Canada groaned holding his hands up in defeat. "It's getting late," he pointed out. "We should all head back to the hotel. You both are flying back tomorrow, aren't you?"

"The day after tomorrow," England corrected. He clutched his beer tightly and hunched down in his seat. It was clear he wasn't ready to leave.

"Come, _petit,_ " France slid further down the booth and gestured to the now empty space. "We have hardly spoken these past several days."

England gave a loud snort. "You've been far too busy clutching at America's coat tails," he muttered. He glared at his nearly empty bottle, imagining America's face in its place.

"Not this again," Canada groaned. Defeated, he dropped into the open seat, knowing he had no chance of dislodging the Europeans until they'd had a chance to complain about his brother. "Alright, what did he do this time?" he asked, bracing himself for the impending verbal onslaught.

France hummed slightly. "It is not his conduct this week that is of concern," the Frenchman began. "He is refusing to further explain his history. And there is still far too much mystery over the events back in April, and his role in them, for comfort."

"Explai-" Canada stared disbelievingly first at France and then at England. "What do you expect, an autobiography? He's told us everything we need to know! And what do you mean 'his role' in the Austin incident?" A sudden realization hit him. "You don't actually think he was in on it or something? That's insane!"

"More insane than the idea that he just innocently failed to meet a single personification during the course of his entire life?" England looked incredulous. "That doesn't happen to _us_. We _find_ each other. We're _drawn_ to each other. He _must_ have been actively working to avoid us, there is no other explanation!"

"Or, hey, think of this," Canada snapped back, "North America is a giant fucking continent!" This. This _again_. He was so tired of this argument! "For that matter, you have no idea what you're talking about. He _did_ encounter the native Nations. They tried to kill him! And if you'd bothered to actually speak with him instead of about him, against him, maybe he would have told you that himself. So yes, yes he was actively avoiding encountering our kind because all of his previous encounters had gone really very spectacularly poorly."

England opened his mouth, ready to continue the argument.

Slamming his hands down onto the table - and not noticing the alarming _crack_ that sounded - he pushed away from the booth and sprang to his feet. "No! Enough. I'm done. We have been over this time and again, ad nauseum, since Austin, and I will no longer sit idly by while you malign my brother. I'm going back to the hotel. Good night, gentlemen!" Without another word, he stalked out of the bar.

France and England stared after him in shock. Canada had _never_ exploded like that before, not once. Not during the World Wars, not during difficult international negotiations, not even when England had ignored his requests for independence for decades.

"I think," France finally ventured, "Canada is in need of us now more than ever." There was obvious concern in his eyes.

England nodded, looking stricken. "America has him completely brainwashed," he agreed. "We'll get him back," he promised.


	4. Chapter 4

Canada slammed the hotel door shut behind him with wall-shaking force. He stood still in the entryway, hands balled into fists, still angry at England and France for their paranoid speculation.

Kumajiro was stretched out on the bed, idly poking at the television remote and watching as the set changed channels at random. The large room service tray with Kumajiro's dinner Canada had arranged when he first arrived had been licked cleaned, with only a single stalk of parsley remaining on the large white plate.

"Today did not go well?" an amused voice suddenly asked.

Startled, Canada's head jerked up and around.

Prussia was lounging in the small sitting chair next to the window with his laptop wearing one of the room's complimentary robes (he'd chosen the leopard print instead of the zebra print). A soft chirp echoed through the room, and Gilbird suddenly swooped down from the bust of Thomas Jefferson that stared down from the tall neoclassical armoire sitting opposite the bed and landed next to Kumajiro. The plump yellow bird chirped again, offering a happy greeting.

"I'm not even going to ask how you got in," Canada finally stated in exasperation after staring at the other personification for several moments. Stomping away from the door in irritation, he agitatedly peeled off his sweaty jacket and roughly loosened his tie. The garments flew through the air, landing on the animals on the bed.

Gilbird let out an alarmed squeak as the jacket flattened him. Kumajiro, on the other hand, was wholly unfazed by the tie that landed roughly on his head then started to slide off, catching on one round fuzzy ear.

Canada stooped over the suitcase perched haphazardly on a luggage rack and started pawing through the mess of clothes and personal belongings heaped into the modestly sized carry-on. After several moments of digging, he tugged free a pair of soft flannel pajama pants and a well loved Toronto Maple Leafs shirt.

Prussia shook his head as Canada disappeared wordlessly into the bathroom, the shower starting up moments later. Shoving the footstool forward, the ex-Nation hurried over to the bed to rescue the trapped bird, who let out a miserable, tiny squawk once he was free of the sweaty jacket.

Then, unconcerned by Canada's shy nature, Prussia brazenly stormed the luxurious bathroom.

"Prussia!" Canada cringed, instinctively moving to cover himself when the Germanic personification appeared.

"Ja, ja, whatever. Deal with it, Birdie." Prussia waved his hand in a brief dismissive gesture. "You stalked in here like Romano angry at Spain. What's wrong?" He paused slightly, jumping up on the black quartz counter and drawing his borrowed robe close around himself. "Were you in a fight? Must I avenge your honor? I will do so with my awesome skills!"

With a soft sigh, Canada turned around slightly so he could pretend to have a bit of privacy. It seemed pretty clear that Prussia wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You don't need to beat anyone up," he stressed, "it's fine, really, things just got a little tense is all."

"Slamming the door is not _fine_ ," Prussia replied in a flat voice. Folding his arms, he aimed an arch look through the glass enclosure. "You _never_ slam the door."

Canada swallowed. Technically, he wasn't sure if Prussia had been hanging around him enough to be able to tell that. But he to admit: it was true. "It's just . . . " he sighed again, fiddling with the shampoo bottle. "It's England and France. They're, well, they don't like America."

Prussia snorted and leaned back against the wall next to the round ornate mirror. "This is no surprise," he commented. "England's had a stick up his ass about the U.S. since the _revolution_. And France hates that he isn't close to being as awesome as America, but more than that, he hates how close you are to America, how close he is to you. The only way they can cope is to make him the bad guy."

"I know about all- wait, France doesn't like my relationship with America? How do you even know that?" Canada shook his head briefly then shot an exasperated look at the other man. "You know what, that doesn't even matter. The problem is that they're creating paranoid conspiracies about America that are completely baseless. England all but said he thinks everything in Austin was a setup and that America was in on it. France seemed to agree." A look of misery crossed his face. "I don't even want to know what _else_ they're thinking."

Prussia gave a low whistle, something Canada barely heard over the sound of the water pouring out of the shower head. "It's worse than I thought. They must be very jealous of your brother." He nodded, feeling fairly certain he understood the situation now. "You know England was treated like shit when he was smaller, right? Everyone picked on him. It was centuries before he had the strength to fight back.

"France's life was only a little less shitty than England's," Prussia continued. "He's been digging up dirt on other nations for centuries in order to make them fight for him. But if he lost," Prussia shuddered briefly, "scheisse, that guy does not rest until he gets revenge."

Canada absently nodded along with Prussia's narrative. He had gotten an earful about England's childhood multiple times. It tended to come up over the holidays whenever the man was drunk around his brothers. And for as much as France tried to convince everyone he cared only for _passion_ and _amour_ , Canada had been there after World War I had ended. He'd seen how much France enjoyed extracting every bit of vengeance he could from Germany and the other members of the Central powers.

He dunked his head under the water spray, quickly rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

"Basically," Prussia continued once Canada could hear him again, "those two not-awesome losers hate America for not going through the shit they did. They can accept that he got very lucky or they can call it a conspiracy with your brother cast in the role of Evil Guy Number One."

"That makes sense, I guess." Frowning, Canada reached out and turned off the water. The ridiculously large bathroom had both the shower _and_ bathtub in the same overly large enclosure. Stepping across the black tile floor, he skirted the clawfoot tub and pulled his towel off the small bar tucked in the corner furthest from the shower head. He quickly dried himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist.

Prussia grinned as the younger personification stepped out of the shower, unashamedly letting his eyes rake over his damp body.

Scowling, Canada scooped his clothes up off the bathroom counter and buffeted Prussia with them. "Out," he ordered, somewhat amused but very firm about his desire for privacy.

"Are you sure?" Prussia leaned in closer. "You might need help. You don't want to accidently slip and fall? That could be disastrous."

Canada leaned in towards Prussia, their faces centimeters apart. "I'll risk it," he breathed.

Prussia could feel Canada's breath tickle his cheek. "Only if you're sure," he replied, staring deep into violet eyes.

"I'm sure."

There was a momentary pause. Canada turned his head slightly, giving Prussia a pointed look. "That means you should go," he added.

Prussia blinked, suppressing a disappointed sigh while withdrawing to the other room. North Americans were weird about being naked around other people.

Several minutes later, both personifications were settling down in the hotel room. Prussia had retaken his seat next to the window while Canada lounged on the bed leaning back against the massive padded headboard and cuddling Kumajiro. The bear snuggled happily against his companion's chest and, with a big yawn, started to drift off to sleep.

"What do I do about England and France?" Canada asked, absently stroking Kumajiro's head. He had a few ideas himself but as they primarily involved the forceful application of his favorite hockey stick. . . well, he was open to discussing new ideas.

Prussia slid his laptop under the chair and sat back, steepling his fingers together while he took a moment to consider.

"First we must ensure that they know what America has said about his past is true," he began thoughtfully. "Then we can destroy the conspiracy theories." He gave Canada a serious, considering look. "Do you remember him? Is there any evidence you can provide to support his claims?"

The hand gently petting white fur stopped.

Canada bit his lip, his mind flashing back to that first in-person meeting in Austin:

' _America . . . America . . . AMERICA! Holy crap, he was in an ambulance with America! And America looked like him . . . or he looked like America. What the hell did that mean? Why did he look like America? Or . . .' No, he wasn't going to keep doing the back and forth. They looked alike and it was freaky and it had to mean something-_

" _-thew. Hey, Matthew, dude, are you okay?"_

" _Huh?"_

" _You have to relax, Matthew."_

" _How do you know that?"_

" _Know what?"_

" _That I have to relax?"_

" _I . . . "_

 _America gasped suddenly, his eyes going wide and distant for a moment._

 __" _Holy shit," he breathed. "You're my brother." Cornflower blue eyes locked with brilliant purple and time stood still._

 _A small gasp escaped from Matthew. He remembered . . ._

 _The truth hung there between them suspended, arresting time and stretching the moment into eternity-_

Canada shook his head slightly, pushing away from that stunning, world-changing moment.

"I remember a little bit," he started, staring down at the off-white quilted comforter. He gave Kumajiro an absent minded squeeze. "There are a few moments, here and there, that stand out but mostly, it's all rather vague." He bit his lip and glanced up at Prussia. "Honestly, as I got older, I thought I'd made him up. That he was just an imaginary friend I used to play with because I was lonely.

"We went everywhere together, I think," Canada started, his mind reaching back to vague, barely there memories. "I'm not entirely certain how long it was just us and-" he paused, frowning. "Us and someone else . . ."

Several moments went by as Canada struggled to remember. There had been someone else, someone who took care of them, made sure they had clean clothes and good food to eat. A flicker of frustration ran through him. Who had it been?

"Well, anyways," he finally continued, "even if we were apart for a while we found each other again. Usually to share something we'd found." A small smile appeared as a new memory unfolded in his mind.

 _Canada came to a sudden halt in front of his brother, the long, sweet smelling grass brushing against his waist._

" _America, I found a flower this big!" Beaming with delight, Canada held his hands out in front of himself. The flower has been as big as his head!_

 _His brother giggled and flung his arms out into the air, the sleeves of his tunic falling over his outstretched hands._

" _That's amazing, but I found a buffalo THIIISSSS BIG!"_

 _Giggles bubbled up in Canada's throat. He turned slightly and gestured excitedly for America to follow him. Baby Kumajiro bounded up next to him, panting from the long run._

" _There's this huge flower field in my house! It has plenty of pretty flowers, let's go there together!"_

 _Buffalo abruptly forgotten, America gasped, his eyes going wide._

" _Wow, that sounds fun! Let's hurry and go there!" America clapped his hands together, bouncing up and down in excitement._

 _Canada reached back and grabbed America's hand, tugging him forward. The other boy immediately broke into a run and they quickly disappeared, heading north as fast as their tiny feet could carry them._

Prussia snorted, breaking Canada out of his sappy reminiscences. "Adorable," the ex-Nation commented. He smirked at the other personification. "I can feel my awesomeness being leached away by all the sap. So what happened?"

"What happened?" Canada blinked in confusion.

"How did you and America get separated? How did _you_ end up with England and him all by himself?"

"Oh, well, I think it was when France started the first big colonization surge. Something drew me further north than usual, tugged at me to come find out what it was." Canada thought back, remembering weeks and months of walking on and on, huddling for warmth with Kumajiro wherever they could find shelter, knowing he was getting farther and farther away from his family but unable to stop walking north.

"I ended up running into the French settlers. I'd never seen people like them before, so I hid a lot, but I'm not sure that was really necessary. They didn't seem to be able to see me at all." Canada's mouth twisted slightly at the bitter memory.

"I remember England and France fighting. After England won, France went away. England didn't really seem to know what to do then, so I went up and told him where he could gather food and supplies. After that, he took me in, built me a house." Canada shrugged. "He said we were family now. And it'd been so long since I'd seen my own family, I was just happy to have someone who was actually looking _at_ me again. Ever since I'd gone north, no one saw _me_ , they just saw my land. But he didn't. And after a while, well, I just . . . started to forget. I was so young, so small. . ."

"Damn." Prussia looked impressed.

Canada stared at him, thoroughly confused.

"Honestly, Birdie? That is more than most of us remember. Then again," he gave Canada a thoughtful look. "You are part of this new generation that grew up much too fast. You, Australia, mein bruder Germany. You all shot up like weeds. America likely did too. Maybe even faster."

"That would make sense," Canada agreed. "I lived with England for almost a century before America declared independence. I had the most awful growing pains during the decades leading up to it, too." He scowled, remembering the agony as he suddenly grew, the endless hunger, and even waking up to discover he'd sleepwalked straight out of the house and into some field or forest nearby, his body frantically driven to just _move_.

"Have you told England that you remember America?" Prussia asked. He dragged his legs off the footstool and leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs as he looked intently at Canada. "Does he know?"

"Oh. Well, no," Canada replied. He groaned as a flash of realization struck him, releasing Kumajiro so he could press hands against his eyes. "He thinks America's brainwashed me, doesn't he? Convinced me that he really is my brother without a single thing backing it up."

"Exactly," Prussia replied, amusement filling his red eyes. "Because you didn't prattle on and on about missing him growing up, as far as England knows, this whole 'brother' thing is just one big lie America used to brainwash you."

"And even if I had talked about America at all while growing up, it wouldn't have been to England, not with how much he was traveling back then." A thread of guilt slowly started to build up in Canada. If he had just explained, neither England nor France would be so paranoid about America. And to think he'd been considering _violence_!

With a soft whimper, Canada let himself fall sideways on the bed, hands still covering his face. "This is all my fault," he whimpered, voice muffled slightly by the fluffy pillows he'd fallen onto.

"No way," Prussia snickered. He jumped up and pushed Canada over onto his other side before settling down in the now open spot. "England's an expert at working himself up. If you _had_ told him, he'd just be upset about something else."

"Not helping," Canada groaned. He sighed softly, taking some small comfort in the warmth emanating from the ex-Nation who sat behind him.

Kumajiro suddenly poked him in the stomach, annoyed at having been abruptly woken up and tipped over.

Canada swept out an absent arm, drawing the bear back to his chest and cuddling him close once more. "Alright, assuming England accepts that America really is my brother, how do we take on the conspiracies?"

Prussia chuckled, the soft sound filled with quiet menace. "Oh, I have a few ideas."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Author Note: Sorry for the delay in posting. Turns out outpatient hand surgery can delay the editing process a bit. Enjoy the chapter!_**

* * *

The small trio returned to the hotel and swiftly packed their bags before headed out to the airport to catch their red-eye flight. Germany spent most of the ride to the airport on the phone apologizing to one of his boss's aides in Berlin for the sudden change in plans. It had been much easier for Italy to get time off; his boss had come to expect his Nation to act on a whim and vanish around the world for days or even weeks at a time. For his part, Alfred had quickly reached out to Jen to adjust the travel arrangements. By the time they arrived at the airport, Germany and Italy's tickets and passes were ready.

Alfred had also sent an email to Japan notifying him of the change in plans. The older nation had been quick to reply, expressing his appreciation of the advanced warning and assuring him that neither Italy nor Germany's presence would be unwelcome. He would, Japan promised, modify the schedule of events to better accommodate the larger group and share it once the changes were in place.

"Rethinking your decision to come to Japan with me?" Alfred teased as he swung his carry-on down to the terminal floor. Plopping unceremoniously into the nearest chair, he pulled out his phone and charger. Both items firmly in hand, he began the arduous process of selecting a working USB port from the charging panel located under his seat in hopes of topping off his battery before boarding their flight.

"I did not expect that you would choose a commercial flight rather than a government charter," Germany admitted, hesitating slightly before setting down his laptop bag and taking a seat across from America.

"This will be so much fun!" Italy enthused, settling down in the seat next to Germany. The Italian had only a small leather duffle which he allowed to drop into the narrow aisle between the rows of chairs. "It's so sad that I couldn't bring any pasta with me," he added. "I'm going to want a snack later." A wistful look crossed Italy's face as he slumped sadly onto Germany's shoulder.

"Yeah, the restrictions have gotten kinda wonky," Alfred agreed. He made a soft happy sound when his phone suddenly buzzed, indicating that he'd finally found a powered port. He sat back up. "We're still trying to figure out how to balance all the different pieces of the security puzzle."

"That's understandable," Germany agreed. Thanks to the sheer size of his land, Germany knew that America had a significantly large number of travelers passing through the thousands of airports that dotted his landscape - more than any other country in the world. Trying to determine the best way to protect everything from small regional airports to the massive international airports had to be a nightmare. And after the terrorist attack in 2001. . . Germany shuddered slightly, pushing away the thought of that awful day. He didn't know America nearly well enough yet to even hint at _that_ topic.

Alfred covered a yawn, his entire face scrunching up as a wave of tiredness swept through him. "'Scuse me," he muttered, blinking away the yawn-induced moisture in his eyes. He threaded his fingers together and stretched his arms out, palms turned to face Germany. There was a soft _crack_ as he popped the knuckles. "So, I'm guessing you want to know why the commercial flight to Hawaii, right?" he asked, dropping his arms back to the armrests.

Germany nodded, suddenly feeling the urge to yawn himself. He shifted slightly, inhaling deeply through his nose in an attempt to allay the impulse.

"Right, well," Alfred slouched back in his seat, absently awakening his phone so he could start texting Canada, "I'm sure I'll end up taking all government flights and stuff for everything at some point, but for now, I like being able to fly with my people." He focused on his phone, fingers flying as he sent a series of quick, short messages. "It helps me better understand the issues they go through day to day - big and small. The annoyances, the drama, stuff like that."

His phone buzzed. Glancing down, Alfred suppressed a grin. His brother's vocabulary became very adorable when appropriately agitated and "didn't [Alfred] know that he was trying to get some gosh-darned sleep, and if he kept messaging like a hoser, Prussia was going to wake up, and if Canada had to deal with that at this hour he would give America what-for the next time they met." He was so looking forward to catching "what-for" as he judiciously chose to ignore his brother's rant.

"On top of all that," Alfred continued after shooting over a picture of Italy drooling on Germany's shoulder to his brother (taken in the most surreptitious manner he could manage), "I'm absolutely certain that a government flight would be direct from DC to Tokyo, and that's a no go. I get, uh, twitchy after twelve hours on a plane I'm not personally flying. So for longer flights, it's easier to break it up somehow. Hence the connection and layover in Hawaii before it's on to the 'The Land of Rising Sun.'"

Before Germany could answer, Alfred waved his phone at him, a scheming smile spreading across his face. "Did you know Canada's having a sleepover with Prussia?" he inquired, voice purposely saccharine-sweet.

Germany blinked. "Mein bruder is _where_?" he demanded.

Wordlessly, Alfred passed his phone to Germany, the ongoing text exchange with Canada open on the screen.

Germany accepted the phone, twisting awkwardly in his seat to keep from dislodging the snoozing Italy. He frowned slightly when he saw the picture of them in the message log but quickly scrolled past it to the back and forth with Canada.

"He did not mention he was planning to come to Washington, D.C.," Germany commented, stilling frowning as he read through the messages America had been exchanging with Canada. "I must admit, I am not entirely certain what he is doing here," he murmured, brow furrowed as he handed the phone back to America

"He's putting the moves on my brother, by the look of it," Alfred replied. He gave his phone another considering look. "The question is, do we need to be worried about it?"

"Why would we need to be worried? Are you implying that my brother is not good enough for your brother? Do you believe him to be ill-intentioned? Because I can assure you that is not the case. He may be over the top and ridiculous, but that does not negate that he is a fine individual."

Alfred looked up, startled by the sudden wave of hostility emanating from the other man. Germany was imposing, even when seated in a too small airport lounge chair with a snoring Italy slumped against him. "Dude, I am totally not implying anything," Alfred quickly responded, holding his hands defensively up in the air. "Prussia's a cool dude. He was a huge help in Austin, and Canada's been very clear that he's a great friend and ally."

It was a relief to see Germany relax slightly. Alfred continued.

"I also know neither of you go in for all the super double-secret stealth ops stuff some of the others do." He paused, watching Germany with intent eyes. "I'm just wondering if them maybe starting a relationship is a good idea. I mean," he paused again, taking a moment to corral his thoughts, "it's ultimately their decision and all that jazz but in the end, I've only known both of them for three months. I just . . . need someone to gut-check me. Make sure I haven't somehow misread what's going on or that I've missed something."

A contemplative look suddenly crossed Alfred's face. "How do we," he gestured first to himself and then at Germany and Italy, "even _do_ relationships. I mean, we are literally walking personifications of world politics. How do we balance our jobs with the personal stuff?"

Germany felt his breath catch as a sliver of icy terror rent him straight to his core. Had America just asked _him_ for _relationship advice_? He held no illusions about himself; Germany knew very well how challenging it was for him to form emotional connections, to read unspoken cues and body language that were as complex a language as German or English.

"I, well-" Germany hesitated. How could he explain this? He'd never been in a romantic relationship, not really. He only knew what he'd read in books and seen in movies. How could he-

' _Idiot'_ , Germany scolded himself.

He jerked the shoulder under Italy's cheek then reached around and poked his soft, round face with a thick finger. "Italy, wake up," he ordered. Grabbing Italy's shoulder, he gave the slumbering nation a shake. "I said, wake up."

"Hrmph," Italy grunted. He shifted, curling up slightly as he pressed his face against Germany's shoulder. "Not now, captain," he mumbled. "I have to catch the kitty-cat."

"Italy!" Germany snapped, shoving the Mediterranean nation upright.

Much to Alfred's amusement, Italy let out an abrupt wail at the sudden movement, instinctively latching onto Germany's arm. His eyes had gone wide and an uncontrollable tremor cause him to shake.

"Germany, the kitty-cat turned into an angry bear," Italy wailed. "We were playing with a feather at home in the garden and suddenly it roared at me and turned into a giant bear! It was so scary!"

"You were dreaming, dummkopf," Germany sighed, determinedly trying to scrape the smaller nation off his arm. "Now calm down, you are causing a scene."

It was several more minutes before Italy settled down. Alfred discreetly waved away the concerned airline agents, mouthing _bad dream_ at them as way of an explanation.

"Germany, why did you wake me up?" Italy finally pouted. He crossed his arms and slouched down into the hard chair, trying awkwardly to find a more comfortable position. "I was having the best dream," he continued wistfully.

"Yes, we know, you have told us. Several times," Germany grumbled. "America had a question. I think you are well suited to answer him."

"Me? But Germany, you're so smart! You should never have trouble answering anybody's question ever!"

Germany shot America a sharp look as the other man coughed, obviously trying to cover up a loud chuckle. Instead of shying away from the implied threat like most, America merely grinned and refused to be cowed.

Gritting his teeth, Germany continued. "America was curious to know how Nations such as ourselves manage personal relationships. Ones formed outside of regular diplomatic relationships."

"Oh!" Italy exclaimed. He abruptly straightened back up. "I can answer that!" He scooted forward until he was perched on the very edge of his seat. "It can be really, really tough for us to make friends," Italy began. "Wars and changing sides and being taken over means we are always getting mad at each other. But then sides change again. So then we're not mad at each other anymore. It can be very confusing. But sometimes, like with me and Germany, we can became such good friends that even fighting doesn't change things. It's so nice being friends with Germany. He has such good food. Like here in America.

"Oh, and dating," he continued, "well that's kinda tricky," an unusually thoughtful look crossing his face. "It doesn't always work out. And sometimes, like with my big brother Romano and big brother Spain, they keep going back and forth, dating and breaking up over and over again."

"Austria and Hungary have remained together," Germany noted, thinking about his oddball cousins.

"You're right, Germany, they have! And they don't even live in the same house anymore," Italy agreed, giving Germany a beaming smile. He turned back to America. "Dating can be really, really tough, so a lot of us just go out with our people instead. And that's a-okay!"

"So what kind of odds would you give Canada and Prussia?" Alfred asked.

"Canada and Prussia?" Italy's eyes went wide. "I didn't know they were dating!"

"Well, they're having a _sleepover_ , at the very least," America responded, waggling his eyebrows at Italy suggestively.

"Oooh." Italy mirrored the waggling. "How exciting!" He spun around in his seat and started smacking Germany on the shoulder. "Why didn't tell me Prussia liked Canada?!" he scolded. "Now I have to wait days and days before I can ask Canada if he likes Prussia back!"

"Mein bruder's personal life is not a subject for gossip!" Germany's large hands shot out and engulfed Italy's more delicate ones. "And in any case, if he has romantic feelings for Canada he has not chosen to inform me of this!"

Italy released an outraged squeal and began determinedly trying to drag his hands free. However, Germany's iron grip made Italy's efforts futile. As their useless struggle continued, Alfred began to quietly gather up his belongings. Their plane had arrived and was releasing its passengers into the terminal. Since he, Germany, and Italy were all flying Business Class, they would be amongst the first to board.

"Hey, dudes!" Alfred interject, suddenly surging to his feet.

The Europeans froze then turned to him, blinking in surprise and confusion. Alfred cocked his head to the side expectedly.

" _American Airlines flight 1828 to Honolulu is now boarding Business Class."_

The sudden announcement took Germany and Italy by surprise, and they quickly scooped up their carry-on bags, hurrying to follow Alfred's lead.

"Onwards!" Alfred cheered. Grinning, he turned and headed towards the plane.


	6. Chapter 6

Consciousness dawned slowly on Canada. Gradually, he became aware of the fluffy pillow beneath his cheek and the heavy comforter keeping him cosy and warm. A thin beam of brilliant sunlight was peering between the drawn charcoal colored curtains, casting a small vertical streak across the room. The air conditioning hummed overhead, cheerfully working to keep the room a pleasantly cool temperature, one more suited to a woodsy Canadian than the usual swampy heat of Washington D.C. in the summer.

The peaceful quiet was comforting to Canada's drowsy mind. His brother's pestering texts the night before had kept him up far too late for his own comfort but the barrage of messages and pictures had finally ended with America and his guests boarding their west-bound plane.

He'd fallen asleep soon after his phone stopped buzzing like something possessed. And now, peering out to the mostly dark room with sleepy eyes, Canada felt more relaxed and well rested than he had since before the meeting. Kumajiro was a familiar weight against the back of his knees, the soft sound of the bear cub's slow, steady breathing telling him his lifelong companion was still fast asleep.

As sensation and awareness continued to grow in Canada's mind, he slowly became aware of the feeling of a hand resting lightly against the top of his head. This was puzzling but he just couldn't bring himself to feel upset or worried. As though this strange presence was comforting and welcome.

An undetermined amount of time passed. Canada continued to snuggle into the bedsheets, dreamy and content. Eventually, somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered: _Prussia_. His European friend had ended up sharing his room last night, having apparently not bothered to make any alternative arrangements.

And that, Canada realized, meant that the fingers loosely threaded through his hair probably belonged to the ex-Nation.

He should probably do something about that, Canada mused. Slowly, mindful not to accidently kick or jostle Kumajiro, he reached up, gently grasping Prussia's hand, then rolling slowly over onto his back to dislodge the offending appendage and settle it on the bed beside him. Once he was flipped onto his other side, Canada squinted, peering with blurry vision at the other personification.

Prussia was lying flat on his back with his mouth hanging open and a thin line of drool leaking down onto the pillow. His arms were stretched out to either side - one stretched towards Canada and the other dangling off the side of the bed. He'd tugged the bedsheets up to his chin, hiding most of the old ratty t-shirt he'd worn to bed. And on the pillow next to his head, Gilbird was snuggled into a makeshift nest.

After staring at Prussia for a few moments, Canada rolled back onto his back and reached out to the nightstand, groping for his phone. After several misses, the cool glass face of the device appeared under his fingertips. Grabbing it, he brought it close to his face, mindful of the charging cord snaking across the surface of the nightstand.

Clicking the device awake, he was startled to see that it was well past 10 in the morning. ' _I must have been even more tired than I thought!_ ' he realized. Putting the phone back to sleep and holding it loosely against his chest, Canada relaxed against his pillow, snuggling back under the bedclothes once more. He wasn't flying back home today, so there was plenty of time to just laze around for a while.

There was also, he realized absently, the problem of England and France. Prussia had spun out a number of different scenarios the night before but Canada was fairly certain (well, completely certain) that no mixture of kidnapping, prolonged tickling, or subliminal messages would convince them to ease up about America.

No, in the end, the only thing he could do with any chance of success would be to actually sit down with them and discuss the matter like adults.

Canada sighed. He could already feel the bitter bite of defeat.

"Mmph, it's too early to be grumpy," Prussia suddenly mumbled.

Startled, Canada jerked his head around to stare at the other man.

On the other side of the large, king-size bed, Prussia yawned, blinking sleepily as he rolled over onto his side to face Canada. A wave of fondness struck the ex-Nation as he took in the sight of Canada.

The northern Nation's hair was delightfully rumpled, the wavy curls in his blonde hair going haywire all over the pillow. Clutching his phone to his chest, Canada was squinting determinedly at Prussia, a hint of color on his cheeks. The hand not grasping at his phone had seized the sheets, tugging them up over his mouth, as though there was something shameful about revealing his worn hockey shirt to Prussia's prying eyes.

Gott, Canada was _niedlich_. If he kept looking at Prussia like that, he'd have to whisk him away and go to- to- Disney World. Or somewhere similar. Somewhere cute. Canada would fit right in.

Prussia reached out and poked Canada square between the eyes, chuckling inside as he watched the other man's eyes cross.

"You are not even out of bed yet," Prussia insisted, biting back a yawn. "Stop thinking so much."

Canada merely huffed, looking disgruntled. "I was just thinking about England and France," he admitted, biting his lip in the most _adorable_ fashion. "They're flying home tomorrow, so we only have today to talk to them."

"I told you last night," Prussia huffed in exasperation, "we get that woman of America's to find us a secluded warehouse outside of town and-"

A pillow slammed into his face.

Prussia stared at Canada in shock; he had the pillow drawn back again, a bright light in his eyes. The northern nation was sitting up on the bed now, phone placed securely back on the nightstand. "You- that's-"

"Yes?" Canada asked quietly, raising an eyebrow, pillow held at the ready.

"Right." A fierce light entered Prussia's eyes. If this was how he wanted it, _so be it._ He grabbed his own pillow, but, just as he was preparing to swing, Kumajiro's head popped up between them.

"Hey, I'm hungry!" the bear demanded, swiveling his round fuzzy head back and forth, giving both Canada and Prussia an irate look. "So stop playing!"

"The awesome and mighty Prussia does not play!"

Canada could feel a chortle building up in his chest. Prussia looked thoroughly offended at Kumajiro's words. He also looked as though he wanted to give the bear a whack with his pillow but was suddenly self-conscious of being perceived as "playing".

"Why don't we get dressed and go find an early lunch?" Canada offered once he'd successfully squashed the fit of laughter building up inside himself.

"Yes! Food!" Kumajiro cheered. The bear quickly climbed up over Canada and dropped off the side of the bed, hurrying over to where Prussia's luggage sat on the floor near the desk. "Come on!" he urged, grabbing the bag with big paws and dragging it towards the bed. "It's lunch time!"

In the end, it took nearly forty-five minutes for Canada to get ready. Prussia had found himself sitting idly in his chair watching in fascination as his North American friend darted all over the room, gathering up bits and pieces of his non-business attire, taking care of "emergency" emails from his boss, and tugging a hungry Kumajiro away from the goldfish swimming in nervous circles in its bowl on the armoire.

Canada's scatterbrained approach at getting ready to leave meant Prussia had plenty of time to take in the room's . . . eclectic decor.

The room was a riot of color, from the yellow walls, periwinkle blue chairs, lime green chandeliers, and orange and red damask pillows. The bed's headboard was a massive, towering thing, almost double the width of the bed it sat behind and covered in black circles and dots. Most dramatically of all was the five and a half meter ceiling.

Prussia could only assume that Canada's large, luxurious room was somehow America's doing. There were clearly perks to being the brother of a superpower!

Finally, Canada breathed a soft sigh of relief and gave Prussia a sheepish look. "I think that's everything, finally," he murmured, a hint of a blush touching his cheeks. "Sorry to take so long. I always have trouble keeping track of things in hotel rooms."

"It's no big deal." Prussia smirked and rose to his feet. "I, the _amazing_ Prussia, have devised a new plan!" He preened slightly, ready to accept Canada's praise.

"O-oh, really?" Canada looked a bit nervous. "Why don't you tell me about it on our way to get lunch?" he suggested, absently reaching out to grab Kumajiro.

"I, the awesome Prussia, will graciously bestow upon you my awesome plan over lunch," Prussia agreed. He whistled softly, waiting patiently as Gilbird flew over and landed on his head.

With their companions in tow, the two personifications headed out. Prussia's head kept turning as they made their way down the hallway and to the marble staircase. The different floors of the massive hotel had different wallpaper and carpet runners, everything from elegant ferns to dramatically repeating images of various American Presidents' faces.

Finally, the small group reached the first floor. They hurried through the almost painfully green colored lobby and finally stepped out into the sweltering, humid, summer day.

"Disgusting," Prussia complained as he immediately started to sweat. "Where are we going?" he asked. "This is a different hotel than usual. I have yet to discovered what's nearby."

"Oh, well, I think America wanted to make a good impression," Canada explained, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up and down the street. Finally, he reached out and tugged at Prussia's shirt sleeve, pulling him along the sidewalk. "And, well," he added, giving Prussia an amused look, "there's a McDonald's one block away. America's a bit . . . addicted, I think."

Prussia snorted and dug a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, shielding his sensitive eyes from the bright light reflecting off the neo-classical buildings that lined 7th street. "Americans," he muttered dismissively.

"So," Canada asked a few minutes later, "what's your new plan?" He almost hated to ask. You never knew what you were going to get with Prussia. It could be genius or the most bizarre thing you'd ever heard.

With a smirk, Prussia began. "Clearly the American government didn't just meekly accept a random individual's claim to be the personification of their country. They must have found proof. They would not blindly accept such an outrageous claim. What we must do, is call the woman from the State Department and make her hand over the evidence!"

"That's . . . that could actually work," Canada realized. Absently guiding Prussia to cross the street, he turned the idea over in his head. While he didn't think any human would have tried to claim to be the personification of the United States of America, it made sense that the government would want to try and find _some_ kind of corroborating evidence. He wasn't entirely certain what that proof could be, but surely they had found _something_ by now?

"I'll call Ms. Williams after we've ordered," he said thoughtfully as they passed a towering sports stadium. "She's the only one in the State Department who might be willing to give us whatever evidence they may have found."

"You're fortunate I'm here to counsel you." Prussia preened, clearly delighted to see that Canada was taking his suggestions seriously. "I don't help everyone, you know," he added.

"I'm very grateful," Canada responded, giving Prussia a warm smile. He stopped outside a green storefront with a black awning. The name " _Zenga"_ was written on the fabric covering in bright letters. "Now, how does Afro-Latin cuisine sound?"


	7. Chapter 7

A sulky expression on his face, England sullenly sipped his tea and tried his best to ignore the Frenchman singing off key in his shower.

The two men had stumbled back to the hotel a few hours after midnight. Somehow, they'd managed to navigate their way to the elevator, up to England's floor, and into the hotel room before passing out.

England had managed to collapse onto the bed before blacking out, still wearing his suit jacket and dress shoes. His tie had yet to turn up which was starting to become a bit concerning. Northern Ireland had gifted it to him several decades ago for Christmas, and it was a favorite of his.

Meanwhile, France had ended up on the plush purple loveseat tucked against the wall near the window, his long legs half propped up against the high back of the couch and half dangling off the edge. He'd awoken with a nasty crick in his neck which apparently required that he wake England up immediately to complain about.

After a bitter argument, France had stormed off into the bathroom, locking himself inside while he took his time bathing and preening.

Left to suffer the sound of melodious French wafting through the door, England was forced to utilize the cursed, overly complicated coffee/hot drink machine tucked into the armoire next to a sickly goldfish swimming in sluggish circles to prepare his morning tea. He'd ordered a proper tea pot every day he'd been in the United States thus far, but he absolutely refused to let even one of the hotel staff know that France had ended up in his room overnight.

Fortunately, even the lackluster "English Breakfast" tea-in-a-pod thing he was drinking was slowly chipping away at the terrible pounding in his head. He might even be ready for a _real_ pot of tea soon if this kept up.

The sound of running water cut-off suddenly and the glass door could be heard swinging open. Moments later, the bathroom door flew open and France appeared. He had one towel wrapped around his waist and another his head. "Angleterre," France declared, "you must go to my hotel room and fetch my toiletries and a change of clothing, _très rapide_." The door slammed shut once more behind France leaving England to stare after him.

"I am not your servant!" England sputtered. Slamming the mug of tea down onto the table, he stalked over and pounded on the door. "You'll go back to your room in your clothes from last night and be happy about it!"

The door opened just a crack, just enough to allow France to give England a withering look. "Don't be ridiculous," France scolded with a roll of his eyes. "If I leave in yesterday's suit, everyone will know I was here. If I had found another's company, we would have enjoyed our evening there. But since I was not so fortunate, it will be clear that I was, instead, with you. And you are so very concerned about that, _non_?"

England sputtered, _knowing_ there was a hole in that logic . . . But with his head still aching, he couldn't find it. After several long moments of staring balefully back at France, England snarled and spun on his heel, stalking away from the bathroom.

Pretending not to hear the soft chuckle as the door slid shut, England angrily snatched up France's clothes from the loveseat and started roughly digging through the pockets for the Frog's wallet. Finally finding it in the elegant grey suit coat, he flipped the sleek leather billfold open, yanked out the slim plastic keycard, and dropped the wallet and coat back on the loveseat.

Then, employing the greatest stealth tactics used by MI-6, England made his way down the hallway and slipped unnoticed into his eternal neighbor's room. It was much the same as England's, the only differences lying in the different fabric used for the headboard and a much more energetic goldfish sitting on a table near the bed.

Grudgingly gathering up all the different lotions and pots and bottles in the bathroom, England dumped them along with a single change of clothes into the laundry bag hanging forgotten in the armoire. Casting one final annoyed glance around the room (and pausing briefly to pilfer the contents of the mini fridge) England hurried out of the room and back to the relative safety of his own.

"Frog!" he roared, the bag slipping from his hand as he saw France, naked as the day he was born, stretched out on the bed chatting away on England's mobile phone.

Instead of quaking with terror and begging England for forgiveness, France waved cheerfully at the green eyed nation and gestured towards the phone. "Dear Canada has invited us to dinner," he breezily explained. "He has even arranged a private room to apologize for his rudeness last night."

Explanation done, France turned his attention back to the conversation literally at hand. "We will be most pleased to dine with you tonight," France said into the phone. "I'm sure England will-"

With a strangled cry, England stomped forward and yanked the phone out of France's hands.

"Get your naked bum off my bed!" he snarled. "I'll have to get the staff up here to sanitize everything."Grumbling in frustration, he turned his back on the Frenchman and brought the phone up to his ear.

" _Please don't kill France, England,"_ Canada asked. His voice was tinny and England could hear a great deal of background noise - voices, the clatter of plates and dining utensils, and . . . Prussia?

"I make no promises," England vowed. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder then scowled when he saw that France was now stretched flat on the bed, hands propped up behind his head as he watched England with interest. "Where are you?" he demanded, turning away once more. "There's a frightful amount of noise. And is that Prussia I hear? What's that hooligan doing here?"

" _Yes, that is Prussia. He flew in yesterday to come visit. We're at a small restaurant down the street past the Verizon Center having lunch. Um, do you want to join us?"_

Dine with Prussia? In public? That would end poorly, England just knew it.

"No, no, we'll find our own sustenance." He froze. "I mean, _I'll_ find something for lunch. France is on his own."

" _If you're sure. Did France tell you about tonight? I was, eh, wanting to apologize for blowing up last night at both of you. The hotel has private rooms, so I thought we could dine together before you both flew out tomorrow?"_

"Of course, lad." England beamed at the phone. "The Frog was light on details as always, but I am always happy to dine with you. When and where shall we meet you?"

" _The hotel restaurant is called The Dirty Habit, as I'm sure you've noticed. I've asked for the use of the private dining room. We can meet there, at 5 o'clock this evening?"_

"Lovely, we shall see you then. I hope you have a pleasant afternoon." England ended the call, then took a small step towards the nightstand. Bending down, he retrieved the charging cable from where it had fallen and plugged in his phone before setting it on the small table. He turned slightly to address his irksome "guest."

"Get dressed, Frog," he growled. "We need to figure out how to convince Canada he can't trust America."

* * *

Alfred took a deep breath as he got out of the small shuttle car, taking in the unusual mix of jet fuel, mechanics, salt water, and the distant smell of fragrant flowers. A small grin crossed his face. He loved Hawaii - so very much. And he didn't spend enough time here, not nearly enough. Perhaps he could arrange an event here.

"I've never been to Hawaii before," Italy suddenly said behind him.

Alfred turned and stepped to the side so the other Nation could climb out of the car.

"Ah, it's so pretty!" Italy went up onto tiptoes, craning his head around to try and catch all of the sights. "And this is just the airport! America, we have to come back here and go to the beach!" Clapping his hands together in excitement, Italy gave America a pleading look. "I want to see the hula dancers and drink out of coconuts and learn how to surf!"

"We will not have time," Germany corrected as he stepped around front of the car. "It will likely be best for you and I to fly directly home from Tokyo."

Italy's lower lip jutted out as a small pout appeared on his face.

Germany sighed. "But I'm sure we can arrange to take a vacation here sometime later this year," he added reluctantly.

"Just let me know! I'll be happy to play tour guide!" Alfred chuckled, flashing both Europeans a big grin. He then turned and joined the shuttle driver at the trunk of the car, helping him to pull the last of the bags from the vehicle.

The last item to emerge from the car was long, narrow, and tucked into a slender cloth sleeve. Alfred hefted the strange object then tossed it at Germany, who scrambled not to drop it.

"If you can get that, I can carry the bags," Alfred said by way of an explanation. He then tossed his large duffle over his shoulder and grabbed both Italy and Germany's bags, hefting them with apparent ease.

Germany frowned as he studied the item America had thrown him. He could be mistaken, but the item felt suspiciously like a sword. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he undid the ties at one end of the white linen sleeve and drew down the opened end.

As he had suspected, the item _was_ a sword. He grasped the hilt partially drawing the blade back. The grip was black leather with gold accents. The brass guard was connected to the pommel with simple elegant branches and the steel blade and scabbard gleamed.

"Why . . . why are you bringing a sword on the plane?" Germany asked, staring dumbfounded at the weapon.

Alfred gave him an exasperated look. "Cause it's good manners to bring a gift to your host in Japan."

Germany gave him a blank look. Alfred resisted to urge to shuffle his feet and stare at the ground.

"Well, this is the first time I've gone to Japan. It's polite for the host gift to be personal and we're talking defense stuff so . . ." his voice trailed off. "I ran it by Canada," he added, suddenly finding himself second guessing his selection. "He said it would be okay."

Italy's eyes widened when he heard the hint of anxiety entering America's voice. It made perfect sense, he realized, for America to feel a bit self-conscious. He was taking a risk by selecting a more personal gift rather than something more generic. "I think he'll like it," Italy offered, wanting to wipe away the worry suddenly marring America's handsome face.

Germany gave himself a small shake and carefully sheathed the weapon then tucked it back into its protective wrapping. "I believe he will be pleased," Germany agreed. Holding the weapon by the sheath, he eyed America, who was laden with all of their luggage as well as his carry-on bag. "Please, let me help you," he offered stepping forward.

Alfred shook his head, feeling the tension from the last few moments draining away.

"I got this, dude," he responded, flashing him a reassuring smile. Reaching forward, he nudged Germany with one of the bags then nodded towards the waiting airplane. "Let's go! Our destiny awaits!"

* * *

Syd let out an annoyed huff. He thought an assignment in Hawaii was gonna be great. Surf, sand, babes, maybe a couple drinks that you sip out of coconuts. Wrong! Instead he'd spent the last hour sitting in an airplane hangar with no breeze and ninety-seven percent humidity and before that twelve hours stuck in a cramped motel room laying low, and now they'd be leaving any minute. This job sucked.

"Bobby, can we fucking go yet?" he whined.

"Shut the hell up, Syd. We've got a job to do. And the target car just pulled up, so shut your mouth and let me concentrate."

Bobby watched through high powered binoculars and grimy hangar window as Alfred Jones exited a black sedan and looked around. Dude looked just like the picture they'd been given. He was about to move away and radio in that they were going to be running on time with the package when another figure climbed out, followed by another. He hadn't been given photos of these two, but he'd seen them before in other briefings. He watched intently, waiting for others to show up. When none did, he watched as they chatted briefly, then began boarding the plane.

Lowering the binoculars, Bobby let a wicked grin cross his face. Turning, he locked eyes with Syd, "Call ahead. Let them know the target is inbound with two more of his kind."

Syd smiled back, reaching for the sat phone. "Three times the fun. The bosses are gonna love this."

"Yes, they most certainly are." Bobby quickly began gathering their equipment. They still had work to do. After all, they were responsible for making sure the packages arrived safely.


	8. Chapter 8

_**NOTE ABOUT FUTURE UPDATES** : We are going to be slowing the posting schedule to **once a week** instead of every three days-ish. Real Life is getting busy and the chapters are getting longer from here out, which means we need more time to wrap up the edits. _

_Enjoy the next chapter!_

* * *

Canada was going to go crazy if he had to just sit and wait much longer.

He, Prussia, and their companions had returned to the hotel after an excellent early lunch. Prussia had suggested going to visit the Smithsonian American Art Museum or the International Spy Museum, both of which were close to the hotel. Unfortunately, Canada had insisted on returning to the hotel. He'd manage to get ahold of Ms. Williams during lunch and she'd agreed to look into the question of what "proof" the government had located since America had appeared back in April. She'd promised to come by the hotel to discuss the matter, and Canada, pressured by time slipping away, had gone ahead and arranged for a private dinner with England and France.

And now, they'd been back for over three hours, and there hadn't been so much as a peep from Ms. Williams.

Prussia had given up trying to talk down his increasingly nervous friend and had retreated to his blog and the Internet.

"Without something to show them, they'll never believe me. What do we do if Ms. Williams didn't find anything?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Canada's growing panic, Prussia lowered the lid of his laptop slightly and leveled an exasperated look at the other Nation. "If the woman doesn't have anything, we implement Plan B: kidnap and tickle torture," he declared.

Canada froze mid-step then turned slowly. "We are not going to _tickle_ them into changing their minds! Why is that so hard to understand?" Canada groaned and dropped his head into his hands. They were doomed. England and France would leave tomorrow convinced that America was a dastardly, underhanded, covert agent of evil and they would never ever be convinced otherwise. This was the end, there was no hope, no-

 _Knock knock knock_.

Both personifications jumped and turned to stare at the door to the hotel room. After a moment, the knock sounded again.

"Sorry, coming," Canada called, dashing over to open the door. On the other side, Canada found America's friend and predecessor: Jennifer Williams.

Following the terrorist attack in Austin, she had become a woman of significant power and influence. Her swift and decisive actions during the event had made her one of the highest ranked members in the State Department, and, besides the President, she was _the_ conduit through which the government interacted with America and the other personifications. In addition, America himself considered her a close and personal friend. Ignoring Ms. Williams, at this point, was pure folly; not only did it offend America, but it cut off invaluable lines of communication.

Jennifer pushed her way into the room immediately, giving first Canada and then Prussia a small nod in greeting. Their partnership in foiling the terrorist attack back in April had given them a unique relationship that was practically unheard of between Nations and humans of other countries.

"I'm glad you called," Jennifer began as she settled down in an armchair identical to Prussia's, setting her briefcase on the floor next to her. "Everyone has run themselves ragged getting this NATO conference ready and tempers are high right now. I needed the break."

"I know what that's like," Canada sympathized. He hovered awkwardly for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed and fidgeting with his hands, unsure how to proceed.

Jennifer gave him a thoughtful look, her eyes flickering briefly over to Prussia. "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" she asked in a calm voice. "You didn't exactly go into a lot of detail earlier."

Canada sat still for a moment, hands frozen, pondering just how blunt he would need to be. Best to just lay it all out, he finally concluded. "How much have you worked with England and France since Austin?" he tentatively asked.

"England and France?" Jennifer looked at him with some surprise. "Not very much so far. We've all been focusing on bringing America into the government and getting him up to speed. We certainly had a number of Nations come to visit over the past few months so they could meet him, but neither England nor France were part of that crowd." She tipped her head to the side, causing a few locks of curly brown hair to sway from their usual spot framing her face. "To be perfectly honest, this meeting has been the first time since Austin that we've communicated."

"Well, they aren't handling America's . . . existence, I guess you could say, well." Canada sighed, shoulders slumping. "They're convinced he's either lying about his background for personal gain or is up to something even worse - namely, that he was working with the terrorists in Austin."

"They've gone totally _verruckt_ ," Prussia agreed. "Even for our kind, forming conspiracy theories is a sign you're losing it."

"We were hoping that the United State government had found something that can verify what America has said about his past," Canada concluded.

The two men looked at Jennifer, one expectant and the other hopeful.

"What precisely do you think we would have been able to find?" Jennifer demanded, crossing her arms as she leaned back in the chair, her tanned face unreadable.

"I, I'm not sure," Canada admitted. He gave her a pleading look. "There might be a letter that mentions America, or Alfred F. Jones. Photographs, maybe, or land records."

"And what do you plan to do with this theoretical evidence?"

"Show England and France," Canada replied. "The way they're thinking right now and all the different Nations they're talking to, well, I can see them working themselves up into such a frenzy that they actually decide that they need to do something to stop the man they think is a fraud."

"The United States of America will not tolerate any assault on its national personification," Jennifer responded, her eyes narrowing.

"And that is how we get World War III." An unusually fierce look suddenly crossed Canada's face as he straightened up. "They attack, you counter attack, and then missiles get launched. If there is even the _slightest_ chance we could have stopped a war _right now_ and we don't? If you withhold a piece of evidence that could stop England and France's paranoia in its tracks?" Slowly, Canada shook his head. "I will not be dragged into a war I tried to prevent. When England and France show up demanding his head, I. Will. Not. Help. And as much as I might want to, I won't be able to help him either. My first duty," he continued, "is to my people and my people alone."

Prussia sucked in a soft breath. Waves of icy menace were emanating from Canada, dragging the temperature of the room down until their breath was visible before them. His normally soft violet eyes had taken on a red tinge, and Prussia could almost _hear_ the groan of glaciers and stampeding elk in every word he spoke. The Great White North was one of the most frightening powers in the world, and they were all fortunate that he was so slow to anger. But when he was properly upset. . . a shiver ran through Prussia, one not caused by the plummeting temperature.

Memories of Canada fighting on a battlefield flashed through Prussia's mind. The normally quiet Nation had turned into a red eyed, howling berserker, ripping through Nazi soldiers as though they were tissue paper, wielding his rifle like a club after he ran out of ammo while an enormous white bear roared and mauled human flesh alongside him.

He could see the sudden fear in the American woman's eyes. It was rare for a human to see a Nation in such a state, the full weight of the nation, it's lands and creatures, pouring out of him in such a visible fashion.

Jennifer took a shaky breath, unable to stop the shivers wracking her body. Her breath ghosted in front of her and the sweat from her trip to the hotel crystallized on her flesh. "I'm glad I was able to bring something with me, then," she stated, relieved that the fear coiling in her gut couldn't be detected in her voice.

The menacing power emanating from and surrounding Canada evaporated. Slowly, the temperature began to climb back up as the air conditioner automatically switched over to heat.

Canada winced internally as he saw the small tremor in Ms. Williams's hands as they picked up and unlocked her briefcase. In the background, he could hear the goldfish swimming frantic circles in its small bowl, clearly distressed from the sudden temperature shift. He hadn't _meant_ to manifest the howling wilderness that made up most of his lands. It had just . . . happened. Perhaps he should apologize?

No.

It was important that the United States government understand what was at risk. They had been insulated from the personifications for too long. They had sent human representatives, yes, but that wasn't enough. They hadn't had centuries to get to know and understand their Nation's true self.

The governments of the British Isles knew very well the magic that their personifications clung to. Whatever the humans personally thought, they knew that their nations at least could manifest versions of folktale creatures around them and cast curses on each other. For God's sake, there were official policies and guidelines for what to do when Scotland or England were indisposed because of some curse or another they'd cast on each other! Northern Ireland, poor lad, had found himself representing the United Kingdom at an EU meeting once because England, Scotland, and even Wales had all managed to turn each other into corgis!

America had likely been on his best behavior around the humans since the Austin incident. There was no way they'd seen him manifest any otherworldly powers their kind possessed. Even his ability to demolish over a dozen hamburgers in a single sitting could be explained away as him being a young man with an active metabolism.

No, no matter how much he hated frightening a good, decent, honest woman, it was better that they _know_.

Jennifer had managed to get her trembling under control by the time she pulled the relevant folder out of her briefcase. "There's only one letter in here," she said quietly, holding the folder out to Canada, "but I think it will do the trick."

Accepting the folder, Canada flipped it open and sucked in a sudden deep breath, his eyes going wide. "This can't be," he breathed, a tingle running across his skin as he stared down at the first piece of paper, which described the origin of the letter contained in the folder. After taking a deep breath, he began to read outloud:

 _ **The Papers of George Washington**_

 _ **The University of Virginia**_

 _ **George Washington to Future Presidents of the United States of America 20 Sep. 1796  
**_ _DATE: September 20, 1796  
SERIES: Classified Series [ 1775 - 1799 ]_

 _ **Background**_

 _The Papers of George Washington, a grant-funded project, was established in 1968 at the University of Virginia, under the joint auspices of the University and the Mount Vernon Ladies' Association of the Union, to publish a comprehensive edition of Washington's correspondence._

Letters written to Washington as well as letters and documents written by him are being published in the complete edition that will consist of approximately ninety volumes. The work is now more than two-thirds complete.

 _ **Historical Note**_

 _The Classified Series, 1775-1799, contains letters, documents, and publications created by or sent to George Washington that are closed to the general public. The majority of records in the Classified Series were written by Washington himself and maintained by members of his family, beginning with his nephew Bushrod Washington, until they were donated to the Library of Congress. Additional materials are from donations to the Library of Congress, the National Archives and Records Administration, and private collections._

 _The series was formally created by the Papers of George Washington Project in 1971 following their discovery by the processing archivists. The materials within this series were reviewed and chosen by the Librarian of Congress, the Archivist of the United States, the Secretary of State, and the President of the United States. The materials undergo additional security reviews every twenty years._

 _ **Additional Note(s):**_

 _The September 20, 1796, letter written by George Washington to his successors is obliquely referenced in early writings of the first Presidents of the United States of America. However, following the sudden death of President William Henry Harrison (March 4, 1841 - April 4, 1841), the letter disappeared and was not seen again until 2014._

 _The letter was discovered by processing archivists working on a new donation of George Washington materials given to the University of Virginia and considered a piece of humorous fiction. In late April 2015, the Secretary of State ordered a new review of the George Washington Papers, including all recent donations. This letter was added to the Classified Series within 24 hours of being reviewed and is now subject to the same restrictions placed on the series._

 _Mount Vernon 20th Sep 1796_

 _Dear Sir,_

 _I greet you on the 20th day of September, 1796, after the publication of my Farewell Address to the noble citizens of our young nation._

 _As our United States of America assumes its place as a Nation of the World, a matter of discordance must be immediately addressed. In conducting Diplomatic work for the peoples of America, you will with regularity meet Men to whom the name of Nations is given. These Men (and on rare occasions, Women of great Beauty and Wisdom), are to be understood to be the Heart and Soul of these Nations given flesh._

 _It may seem a matter of discord that, unlike the Kings and Dukes of Europe and beyond, you were not granted an introduction to the living body of our United States of America upon assuming the Office of President. You will find that it is the opinion of the Nations of Europe (both the living Man and official statements) that no such person exists for our Republic._

 _I must convey to you now with great urgency that our Nation lives and walks among us; it is imperative for the sake of the success of our Nation that he live unimpeded by all Branches and Official Bodies of our government._

 _The strength of our Constitution and the principles under which we fought our Revolution were that all Men are created Equal, that they are born into Liberty and Freedom. Whatever the true nature of the living Nations, it is incontestably true that they are Men and heirs to those unalienable rights enshrined in our Declaration of Independence. To condemn a child, for a child our Nation is, to perpetual servitude to the United States Government is a gross violation of those rights, one in equal measure to the foul practice of slavery practiced throughout the World._

 _As I write this, our Nation is young, appearing barely 14 or 15 years of age. He goes by the name Alfred Jones; the origin of this name I do not know. Though young still, he has the size, strength, and will of many men. He joined our Continental Army with little personal belongings and I dare say he had not had a reliable source of shelter, sustenance, or the means of self sufficiency until this time. He proved himself in numerous engagements, fighting with the ferocity and skill of the Army's finest soldiers. Indeed, he willfully stood in front of countless men, taking wounds aplenty to save the lives of the mere mortals that are his citizens. And when that fateful day arrived when the British Empire did succumb and surrender the war, young Alfred Jones vanished._

 _It is to my great honor that I had one occasion to speak with Alfred Jones, the United States of America. During the bitterest days camped in Valley Forge, even as countless men starved and froze to death, he was a source of inspiration and hope, sharing rations, clothing, and bedding until he had scarcely anything left to call his own. In that darkest Winter, he succumbed to Death overnight. I was made aware of him when, upon preparing to transport his body away from the camp, he shocked the soldiers bearing him by returning once more to life. It was fortunate that the soldiers thought to consult one of the army's surgeons, Dr. James McHenry, before declaring the act either a Miracle or the result of Witchcraft._

 _The Doctor sent for me in private to consult on the manner while young Alfred recovered from the frostbite that had killed him. Knowing as I did by then of Nations (thanks to our great ambassador Benjamin Franklin), I made a tour of the hospital tents so that I could have an excuse to speak with him and determine for myself who he was._

 _The specifics of our conversation I will not share; they are private words that shall remain between he and I. I will tell you, though, that it convinced me not only of his identity as the United States of America but of our inevitable victory. In him I saw the proof that the 13 states of America had broken from the British Empire in heart and spirit and truly formed one nation. How else could he exist if our nation was not already an indisputable fact?_

 _And thus I close this letter. I pray you heed my words: that our Nation lives and walks among us and that his Freedom and Independence is Paramount. I fear that a day may come that those bonds which entwine the other living Nations must envelope our own but I beg that you work to preserve his freedom with all the powers at your disposal._

 _With very great esteem & regard I am–Dear Sir Your obedt & Affectionate_

 _Go: Washington_

Canada let the photocopied letter fall into his lap, with no words to convey his shock at what he had just read aloud. Washington had known. Washington had met America. He'd met America and decided his future for him without even asking if that's what he wanted. There was a fluttery feeling in his stomach, his head whirling as he struggled to process everything. Did America know about this? He'd met Washington - had he realized there was more significance to that meeting than just getting to speak with the General? And he'd been how old? 14 or 15? Or had he been even younger in body before he won Independence?

He opened his mouth to start asking the questions swirling through his mind when suddenly Prussia was looming in front of him, eyes wide, his face like ash. Without a word, the ex-nation yanked off his glasses, tossing them on the bed, fisted his wavy hair into a small tail on the back of his head, and forced him to look up.

"Nein, nein, nein. Mist. Verdammte Scheisse. Ich habs versaut. Ich habs voll versaut. Scheisse," Prussia swore, staring down at Canada. "I didn't realize, it didn't make sense, it- he-"

Canada knocked Prussia's hands away and grabbed his face. "Deep breaths," he ordered, "Deep. In, out, in, out." He breathed in and out with his words, trying to get Prussia to follow along. Slowly, the Germanic nation got himself under control. "Okay, start over, slowly," Canada said softly once Prussia had calmed down, releasing his face and leaning back.

"Right." Prussia took another deep breath, closing his eyes. He opened them after several moments and collapsed on the bed next to Canada. "The Revolution - I was here with Steuben, helping train the Americans to fight. They were pretty much shit. Just a bunch of farmers who didn't even know how to dig a proper latrine." He paused, biting his lip. "I remember seeing this kid around, you know, here and there. Cute, blond, looked a lot like you," he added with a shaky laugh, a plaintive look on his face. "There were times I could have sworn one of _our kind_ was present. But that's crazy, right? England had been lording it up there for over a century. Bragging and showing off every chance he got; as if he could ever be as awesome as me. If there was a personification for his colonies, he would have found him. He seemed so sure . . ." Prussia dropped his head into his hands. "I'm sorry, Birdie. I should have looked into it," he whispered. "I just … I didn't _think_. I never considered for a moment that England had made a mistake. That he'd simply never found the personification he'd so ardently searched for."

"You- you actually saw him?"

Canada's head jerked around in surprise, so he could stare at the source of the interruption. Jennifer had her hand over her mouth as she stared at Prussia in shock. She suddenly lunged over the arm of her chair, seized Prussia's laptop where it lay abandoned on the floor next to his chair, and shoved it at him.

"Write it down, all of it, every detail you can remember," she urged, then turned to look at Canada. "I think between that and the letter you have more than enough proof," she breathed. "But now we have a bigger concern: how the hell do we tell America about this?"


	9. Chapter 9

The plane was plummeting with frightening speed even as smoke poured out of the cockpit and into the cabin. The crew and passengers alike had quickly donned the yellow emergency oxygen masks that had dropped from the ceiling after the electrical fire started in the plane's cockpit. They were now in a race against time - dropping desperately to a low altitude so the plane could make an emergency landing before the blaze consumed them all.

It took every bit of willpower Germany had to keep from reaching over and grabbing Italy's hand. The smaller nation was whimpering and shaking in fear even as he clutched at his knees while bent over in the brace position. For his part, Germany was grimly contemplating what would be less painful for them: death by fire or possibly drowning? They were low enough now that it was conceivable for the Nations to force the emergency exit open and to jump out. The impact with the water could kill them but there was an equal chance they would merely break a few bones. With all three of them working together, it was possible that they would be able to swim to safety somewhere to await rescue. The biggest problem with that plan, however, was America. Germany doubted he would be able to get the other Nation to abandon the plane's crew.

The two stewards were in similar brace positions in the seats closer to the cockpit. "Brace, brace, stay down!" they chanted, over and over, focusing solely on making sure their passengers stayed as safe as possible under the terrifying circumstances.

Alfred had been sitting opposite of Germany and Italy when their flight was plunged into chaos. Subsequently, he now found himself in an alternative brace position, his feet planted against the floor and his head tilted back as he pressed himself firmly into his seat. If he looked down his nose, he would be able to see Germany and Italy, but he didn't want to. Didn't want to see the fear on Italy's face or the grim determination on Germany's. Didn't want to face the very real possibility of getting either of them hurt or killed because of this stupid trip. Didn't want to think about how the crew might not survive. Didn't want one more life to be lost because of him.

So, he kept his eyes tightly shut, cursing inwardly that what was supposed to be a relatively lighthearted jaunt across the Pacific had taken such a terrible turn. As anguish continued to build within him, Alfred wished desperately he hadn't dropped his phone when the plane had suddenly lurched, sending the stewards tumbling to the ground and every loose object suddenly turning into an airborne threat. They might crash and die in a fiery death, leaving everyone they knew to wonder what had happened.

He really hoped they didn't crash.

Surely they'd turned back to Hawaii. It was the closest airport and the emergency crews there were top notch. But a small voice in the back of his head was screaming at him, insisting that they hadn't banked enough to reverse course. He didn't know where they were or where the pilot and copilot were taking them or even if they would manage to remain conscious long enough to get them down safely.

"Landing!" a voice suddenly yelled from the cockpit.

"Brace!" yelled another.

Alfred's stomach lurched as the plane quickly descended. He wanted to open his eyes and look around and yet he just couldn't-

The plane slammed hard onto the ground, bouncing up and down several times before the wheels had enough traction to grip the ground. The engines screamed as the brakes were suddenly and abruptly applied, sending everyone flying against the limits of their seat belts. The cloth straps cut deeply into their flesh, the sudden change in velocity forcing their heads and necks to jerk painfully.

Then, the plane began to slow. The smoke filling the cockpit was starting to abate, the overworked air filtration system finally getting the upper hand on the dark, foul smelling haze.

When they finally came a stop, there was a moment where no one moved, too overcome by the terror of their near crash. Italy was crying, and even Germany sounded shaken, his breath coming in stuttered stops and gasps.

He had to move. They had to get off, _right now_. If the fire spread, the entire plane would be engulfed in minutes.

Alfred opened his eyes, forcing his pain ridden body to start moving as he clumsily grappled with his seatbelt, struggling with shaking hands to undo what was normally a simple buckle.

Movement.

He looked up, saw the copilot looming into view next to them-

A glint of metal in his hand-

There was a loud crack, blinding pain splitting his head.

Then there was nothing.

* * *

Canada groaned suddenly, his hand moving up to his head.

Next to him, Prussia immediately stopped typing and touched his arm.

"What is it?" the other Nation asked in alarm.

"Just- just a sudden headache," Canada responded. He bit back a whimper. He hated these migraines. They were so random and came out of nowhere. They'd been a plague he'd endured for as long as he could remember. "These happen sometimes. For absolutely no reason," he added in a shaky voice.

"What do you need?" Prussia shoved his laptop aside, nearly sending it toppling off the table.

Unnoticed by both nations, Jennifer looked at Canada with alarm. She'd been developing her own theories about America . . . and Canada. This could be a simple migraine storm. But when it came to the personifications, coincidences and happenstance were rare. No, the connection between America and Canada was unusually close, something America had admitted only two weeks ago when a massive wildfire had broken out in Saskatchewan and he'd been struck with a sudden fever. If the events in one nation were truly affecting the other, Canada's sudden migraine could mean America was in trouble. " _I need to get out of here,_ _ **now**_ _,"_ she realized.

"I think," Canada said in an unsteady voice, "I need to lie down."

Prussia went into action, carefully wrapping an arm around Canada and helping him lie down.

Once Canada was under the covers, Prussia gently pulled off his glasses, folding them and setting them down carefully on the nightstand. The precious folder with the photocopied letter from George Washington was then set down next to the glasses. Prussia glanced at Jennifer and wordlessly gestured to the door. After she nodded and began to quietly gather up her belongings, he hurried over to the windows and drew the curtains, engulfing the room in darkness.

On the bed, Canada had pulled the pillow over his eyes as a makeshift eyemask, one without an elastic band creating pressure around his head. The bed dipped slightly and Kumajiro suddenly curled up at his side, both a comforting warmth and a desperately needed anchor outside of the sudden pounding pain boring through his head.

"Your phone is next to the bed," Prussia murmured, matching words to actions. He'd made sure the device was on silent before setting it down - the last thing Birdie needed was England or someone calling to harass him. "Do you need anything?"

"Excedrin. Double dose," Canada grunted. "Bathroom counter."

As Jennifer slipped out of the room, Prussia darted into the bathroom and retrieved the pills Canada had requested, as well as a glass of water. Returning to Canada's side, the other nation sat up briefly to swallow the pills before lying back down.

"I'll be back in a little while," Prussia promised. "You rest." With one final gentle pat on the stricken nation's shoulder, he grabbed the laptop from the table, hurried to the door, and, after verifying he had still had a keycard, left the room.

Ms. Williams was standing in the hallway, looking at the door with a worried expression. "I wasn't aware Nations could suffer from migraines," she stated quietly turning to face him.

"We don't," he admitted. He stared at the door, his heart aching for the nation suffering on the other side. "We get headaches like anyone else but-" he hesitated. "I haven't heard of anything like this before, not for a country as big and strong and unified as Canada. The only countries to suffer from some kind of chronic condition are ones who, well, who have homes that are not good." A memory stirred in Prussia's mind. A small body, wracked with illness but trying so desperately to be strong.

"So either something terrible has happened in Canada or it's something else," Jennifer concluded.

Prussia's head turned, his eyes filling with suspicion. Stepping forward, he towered over her menacingly, forcing her against the wall.

"What do you know?" he demanded.

Jennifer stared back, unflinching. "Nothing with certainty," she responded, "I have only theories. You know everything I know. In any case," she continued in a brisk voice, "we need to continue our work. Canada will be most upset if the meeting with England and France is unsuccessful because we didn't bother to finish."

Prussia moved in, completely invading Jen's personal space. "That's not an answer," he growled in a low voice

"It's the only one I can give you as long we stay here," she replied evenly, nodding towards each end of the hallway.

For a few moments, Prussia remained, unmoving. He'd lived for centuries in the midst of court intrigue, and right now his current situation brought all those old memories rushing back. She knew something he didn't, and unfortunately that put her in control. He hated all this cloak and dagger shit.

"I'm sure there's a conference room we can use," Prussia finally said, stepping back. "I will not leave the hotel while Canada is unwell," he added in a pointed voice.

"Of course," Jennifer agreed. "Shall we?"

In the end, it only took about ten minutes for the hotel staff to set up a small conference room for their use. After they had secured the door and settled down on opposite sides of a small round table, Prussia began setting up his laptop to continue the task of recording his memories of the Revolutionary War.

The Germanic nation cursed suddenly under his breath when he realized he didn't have a power cord for the computer. The battery had already lost half its power. Well, hopefully it would last the time they would be spending in this small, windowless room.

As Prussia opened his computer and logged back in, Jennifer pulled a small tablet out of her briefcase. As she awakened the device with one hand, she was dialing her phone with the other. Once the call connected and the phone began to ring, she hit the Speaker button on the screen and set it down on the table.

" _State Department, how may I direct your call?"_ a voice suddenly answered.

"This is Jennifer Williams, I need to get a status update. Authorization Foxtrot Mike Four Whiskey Alpha Five Quebec Zulu."

" _One moment."_

There was a brief moment of silence before the line was picked up again. A new voice spoke up: " _What package do you need?"_

"Thunderbird and Nanuk," Jennifer replied. "I need a full status update."

Across the table Prussia raised his eyebrows at the code names.

" _Thunderbird is in flight and on course. Do you require verbal confirmation?"_

"Yes, immediately," Jennifer insisted. The room was filled with a sudden tension. If America truly was safe, then what had happened to Canada?

" _Verbal confirmation request is in progress,"_ the unknown voice announced. " _We will update on Thunderbird's current status once we have more information. General status is positive, no changes over the last month."_ The voice paused and in the background, the listeners could just make out the sound of typing. " _Nanuk has not left the nest. Visuals are obstructed, no other source of intelligence. General status for Nanuk is still Condition Yellow. Fires are spreading in expected patterns and evacuations are proceeding as planned but no other notable changes to conditions."_ The voice paused again. " _Wait one."_

The line suddenly went quiet. Jennifer took a deep breath and looked at Prussia. "Nothing has happened in either Canada or America that could cause either of them to be in bad health," she explained quietly.

A sudden electronic tone suddenly sounded from the phone. The unknown voice suddenly returned. " _Verbal contact with Thunderbird's flight established. All is normal, tracking is on course."_

"Thank you," Jennifer replied. Without another word, she reached out and jabbed the End Call button. "So, they're both fine," she concluded.

"Yeah, if you can call a bizarre chronic illness fine," Prussia snapped back. He growled and threaded his fingers through his short hair. He hated this, hated seeing people he lo- cared about in pain. And this time he didn't even know _why_. Which meant he couldn't _do anything_ to fix it!

"We'll figure it out," Jennifer promised. "It's my job to help America, and I know he'll want to make sure Canada is safe and healthy. But for now, we have work to finish."

Prussia sighed. "Ja, ja, ja," he agreed. Suddenly morose, he reluctantly returned to the document where he was recording his memories of training the rebelling American soldiers. Scattered throughout the document was America.

If this didn't work, Prussia promised himself silently, he would take matters into his own hands. Canada (and America) would be safe no matter what.

* * *

Far from Washington, a swell of satisfaction swept through the man watching the downed plane roll into the dilapidated hangar. The landing had been magnificent and appropriately dramatic for the beginning of such an important operation. The jet, angled sharply down, shooting towards the battered runway. As the nose jerked level with the ground, the wheels rebounded off the concrete, sending the entire machine bouncing back into the air, over and over again. Finally, the squeal of rubber finally gripping the cracked concrete runway rent the air as the brakes caught, bring the aircraft to a slow halt.

It wouldn't be long now. This would make up for the failure in Austin three months ago. What they were going to do here - it would allow them to change the world.

The door along the far wall clicked open and the soft squeak of rubber-soled boots sounded in the small room he'd claimed as his command center.

"The packages are being unloaded," the newcomer reported in a cool, controlled voice. "There was query from D.C. about the flight. Our mole reported all was clear. We will have at least twelve hours before the hijacking is detected."

"That will be more than enough time."


	10. Chapter 10

**CONTENT WARNING**

 **Graphic description of dead bodies and invasive medical procedures.**

* * *

As soon as the plane came to a halt inside the hanger, Bobby and Syd lowered the stairs. A military-style cargo truck pulled up a few minutes later. Several men started piling out, and Bobby started barking orders. "Get up here and help us get these bodies in the truck. We've got to get them secured before they've revived."

That task taken care of, Bobby started to move down the stairs.

"Wait, where the hell are you goin'?" Syd demanded.

"To do my job, shithead," Bobby shot back with clear irritation in his voice from the bottom of the stairs. "And you should do yours. Get the bodies in the truck, then get in the driver seat. Don't leave without me. As soon as I'm done passing instructions to the mechanics, we need to haul ass, so keep these knuckle heads in line and get the job done."

"Who are you calling knuckle heads?" came the German-accented voice of one of the mercenaries from the truck who had already started making his way up the stairs.

"You, Carl. Now shut up and get to work."

Carl grumbled, but moved into the airplane while Bobby moved to speak with the mechanics. Three more mercs moved passed Syd into the airplane to retrieve bodies.

"Syd, nice threads. You are moving up in the world, no?"

Syd sneered at the small, stocky Russian with dark features. "Shut the hell up, Aleksey. This job fucking sucked. Tell me I'm going to Hawaii, then Bobby keeps us holed up in the damn motel room the whole time so we don't blow our cover. Then I have to act like I fucking care about whether those freaks want a soda or a damn package of peanuts. And these 'threads' are fucking uncomfortable. Can't wait to get out of these prissy ass uniform. I mean seriously, what kind of actual man signs up to wear one of these and wait on other people?"

"Syd, Syd, Syd, you are looking at this all wrong. To start, the bosses trusted you with a very important mission. Second, I hear that stewards get lots of girls. The ladies like a man in uniform."

"Really?" Syd queried in surprise.

"Of this I am very certain." Aleksey nodded sagely.

"Well," Syd smiled a little, "silver lining or some shit like that, right? Would be nice if this uniform came in handy for something. Alright, let's go haul off one of those freaks. If we're not in the truck and ready to go when Bobby finishes he's gonna be pissed and then it'll be all our asses."

"Of course. Lead the way."

* * *

The sharp sound of the cargo truck horn let Bobby know Syd and the others were ready to move out.

"Now, repeat your instructions back to me."

The Venezuelan finished taking a long drag on his cigarette, before blowing out the smoke in an annoyed huff and rolling his eyes. "We make repairs, we clean the plane, we wait for further instructions. There is something else?"

"No. There's nothing else."

"Good, then get the fuck out of my way."

"With pleasure," Bobby snarked. Jogging over, he hopped in the back of the cargo truck looking briefly with distaste at the bodies on the floor before taking a seat on the edge of one of the two benches. He leaned down, banged twice on the bumper with his palm, and let out a loud, sharp whistle.

Syd threw the truck into gear and hit the gas. The small truck roared down a pothole pitted road, swerving back and forth as he dodged holes and cracks in the long abandoned surface. In the back, Booby and the others clung to the metal benches that had been welded to the sides of the interior. On the floor between the benches lay the bound bodies of Germany, Italy, and America.

Each nation had been slain by a single gunshot to the head, a method centuries of warfare had proved to be effective in temporarily incapacitating the national personifications, as it took longer for their supernatural healing factor to repair the damage to the brain than any other organ. America had been the only one to see the gunman, so it was likely that neither Germany nor Italy had any idea what had happened.

The truck rolled to a stop under the small overhang attached to the tall, windowless monolith they were using as their base of operations. Another guard stepped out of the metal double-doors and approached the vehicle.

"Bobby," the tall Jamaican greeted, "good to see you. I heard you came back with some extra luggage. So which of these are we takin'? They're ready inside." Turning, he motioned to a pair of orderlies who rolled a stretcher up to the truck.

"This one here," Bobby said, kicking America's lifeless body. "Carl, you and Yosef get him on the stretcher. What about these two, Marcus?"

"They finished their 'accommodations' right before you came. Just over in the decontamination building."

Carl and Yosef reached the front of the truck with America's body and dumped him unceremoniously onto the stretcher. The young Nation's body hit the padded surface with a sickening _thud_ , his head lolling lifelessly to the side. The bullet had torn its way through the side of his head, leaving a gruesome path in its wake. A trickle of blood and other remains slowly began to leak out, rolling down America's tanned skin to the red vinyl surface of the stretcher.

The orderlies strapped the body down and began to roll the stretcher into the building. "Later man. I gotta escort the body all the way to the docs."

"Later Marcus." He watched as Marcus and the orderlies disappeared into the main building. Leaning around the edge of the covered truck, he hollered at Syd, "To the decontamination building. They've set up a holding area for our other guests."

Syd stepped on the gas and quickly drove the truck around the corner of the building to a second smaller structure. As he reached a small loading dock, he spun the truck around and back up to the loading zone.

Carl and Yosef grabbed Germany roughly while Aleksey and Nathan dragged Italy's body out of the back of the truck. Syd leaned back against the driver's seat, watching through the side mirror as the guards worked. When the bodies and Bobby were clear, he didn't hesitate to pull away. He had other orders to carry out now that the cargo had been delivered. Maybe if he was lucky he'd get the opportunity to come back and have some fun with the captives. Freaks deserved to suffer for what they'd done to the human race.

Italy and Germany's limp bodies left a streak of red as they were dragged by the ankles through the winding corridor to what had been a decontamination chamber. Fully aware that the Nations would regenerate from the deadly wounds, the guards were quick to bring them to the makeshift cage that had been erected at the end of the decontamination showers. The guards tossed Germany, then Italy, into the makeshift cell and slammed the door shut, locking them in and laughing as they did so. Really, the Nations should thank them when they woke up. Imprisonment was a much better fate than what the other one was going to go through.

* * *

Dr. Marje Jenkins took care to scrub extra carefully. This was an unprecedented opportunity and she didn't want to accidently contaminate the test subject by being careless. She took care to clean under her nails, between her fingers, and well up her arms, counting out the minutes in her head. Her squeaky new sneakers still had their out-of-the-box smell, which was impressive considering the deep decontamination they'd undergone a few hours earlier, and her yellow scrubs inspired her to be as bright and cheery as they were.

The surgical team was assembled and briefed, only waiting for her to get started. This was her time, her moment to find her inner peace, so she knew she would be calm and mentally prepared for the long examination they were about to undertake.

The peace and quiet of the temporary scrub room shattered when the door suddenly slammed open.

"How much longer will it be before you get started?"

Marje narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. There were times she envied the Americans. Forgoing hereditary nobility was suddenly a deeply attractive notion. "I will be ready when I am ready, _Wally_ ," she insisted, looking over her shoulder with a cool expression. At least someone had gotten the blue blooded idiot to sanitize himself before he barged in. He almost looked intelligent in the blue scrubs. A pity his appearance didn't match reality.

"That's _Lord-"_

"Lord nothing," Marje interrupted with a dismissive sniff. "I dare say your dear doting father would have words to say about you taking on airs you have not yet earned."

"You lowborn _cow_ , how dare you?" Witless Wally looked positively shocked by her statement, as though no one had ever stood up to him before. Well, she supposed it was possible.

"Careful, Wally boy," she sang, stepping back from the sink. She held her hands carefully in the air, mindful not to let any water roll down onto her surgical attire. "Your father practically _begged_ me to come help with this little project of his. He may have placed you in charge of this little soiree, but I think we both know who he'll heed in the end. Mind your manners and perhaps I'll fail to mention to him how _disrespectful_ you've been." With that, she swept out of the room and into the surgical suite.

A nurse stepped forward and quickly dried her hands with a sterile towel as another appeared to help her glove, gown, and mask herself, taking care with each step to avoid any possible microbial contamination.

Finally, she was ready. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and, for the first time, truly got to see her test subject.

It was astonishing how _human_ it looked. If she'd passed it on the street, it would have been noticeable only because of its unusually good looks and brilliant blond hair. It had a distinctly traditional, masculine skeletal structure as well as a strong, well toned musculature - distinct without being overwhelming.

"Recorder on?" she asked, glancing at one of the nurses, who nodded back. "Excellent. Preliminary examination should note that the subject is a match for its culture's conventional standards of physical beauty and strength. It could be beneficial to survey other members of this species and see if there is a pattern of appearance and culture.

"Subject presents as a human male, age late teens or early twenties. No noticeable physical abnormalities. Subject has extensive scarring on its torso and limbs. The scarring would likely not be visible when wearing conventional Western clothing."

One of the other doctors cleared his throat. "The records of the previous subject also noted extensive scarring, particularly around neck. Given what we know of this species's powerful regenerative healing ability, scarring should not be possible."

"Agreed," Marje noted. She studied the subject for a few more moments, looking for anything else that stood out before they began the detailed examination. The subject, named simply _America_ , was completely naked. Sweeping her eyes up from its toes to its head, she paused, frowning slightly. "Bring up the photos of the gunshot wound," she ordered. Stepping forward, she turned America's head one way then another, noting how small the wounds were.

A computer monitor was rolled over and the photos the guards had taken of America's body appeared.

"How long ago was this?" she demanded, eyes going wide.

"49 minutes ago," the nurse stated after quickly checking the Nation's chart.

"Incredible," Marje breathed. "Quickly, measure the wounds and get a sample of the tissue," she ordered. "It's astonishing how quickly the cells have regenerated. Without interference, I imagine it would be alive and conscious again within another hour."

"The subjects in Austin revived much quicker," the other doctor noted.

"Yes but they were already dead when they were shot." Pursing her lips, Marje mentally reviewed the briefing she'd been given when she joined the project. "Those shots were also less damaging as a result of smaller caliber munitions," she added. "This was deliberately damaging. We will want to compare the regeneration rates once America revives."

Nodding in satisfaction, Marje gestured towards the waiting anesthesia technician. "Get it prepped," she ordered. "The moment it starts to show signs of consciousness, dose it."

As the anesthesiologist set to work, Marje moved away from the computer and stepped up to the surgical table. "We'll begin the examination at its feet," she ordered. "Make sure the camera is rolling."

* * *

Lord Wallace Arterbury threw himself into one of the chairs in the makeshift conference room. That woman had no right addressing him that way! He scowled, trying to decide how to put her back in her place. She wasn't wrong that his father had sought her out for this project. But that didn't mean she wasn't replaceable!

"Sulking does not become you," an accented voice suddenly interrupted.

Stiffening, Wallace suppressed the urge to snarl. Out of everyone on the island right now, Tosetti was undoubtedly the most dangerous. That danger, however, also made him an invaluable ally. "Doctor Jenkins is disrespectful," he muttered, casting a dark glare at the small TV displaying the live feed from the surgical room. On it, a sudden spurt of fluid suddenly shot into the air. He turned away with a shudder.

"I am sure she will learn her place," Tosetti responded blandly. The mercenary couldn't help but chuckle inside, although no sign of his amusement crossed his swarthy face. Disrespectful? Hardly. He imagined Jenkins had put the little princeling in his place.

Like Wallace, he turned his attention to the surgery feed. The morbid, violent acts being performed on the lower levels didn't bother him, however. No, he had seen and done far worse. He didn't _enjoy_ inflicting violence but instead admitted that, sometimes, it was necessary to achieve his goals or the goals of his employers.

"We've received word that the American government just did another check on our guests' flight. Happily, our agents again reported that all is well." Tosetti chuckled. "The false tracking information is also holding up."

"Good," Wallace replied with satisfaction. He mulled over the information, turning it around and around in his head. "Send word for the agents to extract themselves as soon as possible," he ordered. "It would be terrible for them to be caught when either the Americans or the Japanese realize that the flight will not, in fact, be arriving on time."

"Of course, sir." Tosetti pulled out the satellite phone he was using to maintain contact with Command and quickly gave the order. Wallace might be a prick but at least he didn't needlessly throw away lives.

Once the call was concluded, he sat back to watch the procedure. "I don't suppose," Tosetti began after a while, "you could elaborate some on _why_ these beings are such a threat?" He cast a glance at Arterbury. "I am, of course, perfectly content carrying out your orders but I must confess to a certain amount of personal curiosity at the sheer amount of vitriol your organization holds for these beings."

Wallace turned away from the TV to face Tosetti directly, secretly pleased to have an excuse not to monitor the ongoing medical procedure. "These _beings_ , as you call them, are manipulating the governments of this world to attain great personal power. They have Kings and Emperors at their every beck and call and think nothing of throwing human lives away to settle their own petty disputes."

A dark expression crossed Wallace's face as a memory of a derisive, insulting _creature_ with thick eyebrows arose. That arrogant little prick had never hesitated to insult him or his family, casting nasty barbs at them while lurking under the protection of the Crown.

Grabbing a folder off the table, he tossed it at the mercenary. It landed on the table in front of him and continued to slide, the contents dragging out behind it.

Tosetti picked at the documents, skimming past the charts and reports, ignoring them in favor of the photos. The black and white images showed a very similar scene to the one playing out in the surgery room down below.

"These records alone are proof that they are not the selfless angels they portray themselves to be." Wallace sniffed, putting on an air of arrogance so he could pretend the records hadn't made him vomit. "Even Russia, a dutiful, biddable Nation by all accounts, had to be restrained for the vivisections and autopsies Chairman Lenin ordered be performed. He fought and even killed those he claimed were his own people to try and escape. Resistance. Defiance," Wallace continued with a small amount of satisfaction, "these are what they display all while claiming to be perfectly loyal and obedient. And that shows us their true nature. Deceitful, faithless, disloyal - only concerned with preserving their own skin. Whatever magic or science they have used to bind themselves to us . . . we will discover it and we will end it."

"And why this one?" Tosetti asked, dropping the photos and picking up one of the medical charts. "You have three of them. What made you pick this one to start with?"

" _This one_ is different from the others." Wallace glared briefly at the TV. "He didn't attach himself like a parasite to the American government and only made himself known to them after the Austin operation."

He took a moment to stew. Austin had been the first operation he'd planned for the organization. It was infuriating how his father had insisted _he_ was at fault for the mistakes made by the _servants_. He'd had them, the most powerful and influential 'nations' on the planet, lined up and ready to die while Godefroy kept the feds in Austin running around in circles with his carefully planned nonsense. Then the so-called _America_ had stepped in and upset everything. He'd killed the soldiers they had distracting the federal officers, he'd slaughtered the men holding the nations, and somehow even blew the brains out of the snipers guarding over the entire operation!

Wallace took a deep breath, consciously loosening his hands from the tight fists he'd clenched them into. "We need to know how _this one_ is different, if at all. Why and how did he remain separate from the American government? Is he the same as the others or is he somehow different?

"Besides," Wallace continued, "We also don't know for certain that the kill method we've developed is actually effective. We were so _close_ to confirming it-" There was the anger again, a spark of white hot anger at how the American had made him look like a _fool_. "But the operation was ultimately a failure. This," he made a sweeping gestured towards the TV, "will help us better understand our enemy. And with that knowledge, we will end them once and for all."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Author Note** : Delayed a day because of Labor Day in the USA and because of Hurricane Harvey. 3 _

* * *

Half an hour before dinner, Prussia strode purposefully up to Canada's room. He swiped the keycard and waited for the little light to flash green before carefully opening the door. He moved quietly through the dark room to the chair where he deposited his laptop. Moving to the bed, he noticed that Canada had rolled onto his side, and Kumajiro had assumed his prefered spot behind the Nation's knees.

Reaching the side of the bed, he knelt down and placed a gentle hand on Canada's shoulder. Again, he couldn't avoid the memories of doing something very similar for another vulnerable Nation so long ago. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a soft voice.

Canada slowly opened his eyes, giving Prussia weak smile. "Better," he replied quietly. "Headache's still there but not like earlier." He closed his eyes again for a moment. "What time is it?"

"Almost 4:30," Prussia answered, studying his friend's face carefully for signs of distress.

"Then I need to get up," Canada groaned. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. "We have to meet England and France in half an hour, and I at least need to rinse off all the sweat from earlier." Slowly, he rotated and swung his legs over the side. Then, taking a deep breath, he slowly stood up, wary that moving too quickly could worsen the lingering migraine or cause vertigo. Instead he stumbled, suddenly noticing a deep ache in his feet and lower legs. He steadied himself on the nightstand before Prussia could reach out. 'What the hell was wrong with him,' he worried internally.

Prussia, hovering anxiously, took in Canada's worryingly pale face and the tight lines of pain around his eyes. "What is wrong? Are you hurt? That's it. I'm calling this off," he declared.

"No, no, it's ok. This meeting is important," Canada insisted. Once he was upright and steady, he padded to the bathroom. Unlike the night before, he couldn't bring himself to get upset at Prussia for following him in, even after he stripped.

Before he could step into the shower, Prussia put a hand on his arm. With the other, he held out the clear shower cap that had been sitting untouched for days on the bathroom counter.

"I think you will not want to dry your hair, ja?"

"... Right." Taking the cap, Canada settled it over his head and started tucking the long strands under its protective barrier. "Could you get my glasses?" he asked.

"Of course, Birdie."

It took less than ten minutes for Canada to rinse off. The warm water pouring down on him washed away the stress and tension through his head and shoulders, but worryingly the ache in his lower limbs remained constant. Hopefully, in a few hours, he could just fill up the tub and soak away all his cares. And if nothing else, the heat was doing wonders for his head, eating away at the pressure behind his eyes until it was barely there.

Since Prussia had taken it upon himself to make sure Canada was ready for the dinner, Canada found his brown suit clean and freshly pressed laying out on the bed waiting for him. He'd taken the brief amount of time Canada had been in the shower to change his own clothes as well and had eschewed the comfort of his prefered t-shirt and jeans for a dark, silky blue shirt with bold red piping along the edge of the cuff and the front along with a pair of dark gray slacks. It was vaguely reminiscent of one of the uniforms he'd worn back in the 18th century.

"I called the front desk," he explained cheerfully. "They will have four seats ready for us. I am not letting you go down there alone!" Prussia then held up the folder Jennifer had given them earlier. "Plus, my own awesome testimony will no doubt be key in convincing England and France that they are being nothing more than jealous assholes. We made copies of everything, so those losers can have their own." he added in a pleased voice.

A lump formed in Canada's throat. He couldn't believe how much Prussia had thrown himself into this. This was Canada's problem, a fight he had chosen to pick. It was completely unnecessary for Prussia to get himself mixed up in what was basically family drama. (Well, a family drama where several of the family members were armed with nuclear warheads.)

"Thank you," he finally responded. "You didn't have to."

Prussia snickered. "It's been years since I've been able to torment those stuck-up pricks. This is going to be _epic_."

* * *

England looked at his watch with growing irritation. "Frog," he finally snapped, "if you do not stop primping and preening in front of that mirror, we will be late." He crossed his arms, accidently crumpling his fine pressed suit. The goldfish nearby zipped into its underwater castle, startled by his near-shout. For a moment, England, glared at it; the fish in _his_ room only swam in sluggish, half-hearted circles.

 _He_ had been ready for nearly half an hour. Knowing how France could get distracted fussing over his appearance, he'd made the decision to personally fetch his obnoxious neighbor and ensure that they were both on time, or perhaps even early, to the lovely dinner he just knew Canada had planned.

What did he get instead of sipping fine wine and engaging in delightful pre-dinner banter with one of his favorite members of the Commonwealth? Twenty minutes of prodding a lazy Frenchman into actually committing to a specific outfit, doing his hair, and picking just the right cologne.

The French were so _frivolous_ sometimes.

"Angleterre, dear Canada has great difficulty being on time to anything." France paused from his intense examination of two different pairs of cufflinks and gave England a dismissive look. "I dare say this is your influence. But it does mean we are in no hurry."

"My influence?!" England sputtered for a moment, actively struggling to suppress the urge to stalk over and throttle the braindead twit. "You forget," he snarled, "that Prussia has apparently decided to come bother Canada. He will no doubt be aware of our dinner plans and likely has invited himself along."

"And that unfortunate dreariness that affects the Germanics will cause him to personally ensure Canada is on time," France realized. He sighed. Prussia was a dear, dear friend, especially now that he was no longer in a position of power, but he and his brother were such sticks in the mud sometimes. All duty and order and tidiness with no room for true passion and intimacy. And now the obsessive hyperfocus that his friend could sometimes have was aimed solely on his darling Canada.

"We will have to have words with him," France concluded. He studied the cufflinks for another moment then set down the slightly more ornate black gem pair, choosing instead to wear the simpler gold bars. Both had been a gift from Canada several years ago.

England blinked. "With Canada?" he asked in bewilderment. "We've already planned that."

France rolled his eyes. God save him from thickheaded Englishmen! "With _Prussia_ ," he explained, deliberately adopting a slow paced, mocking tone. "He has the emotional range of a block of wood and his attention span is scarcely greater. Canada requires someone with more ... delicacy. No," he concluded, fastening the last cufflink with a decisive gesture. "He is entirely unsuitable."

There was a moment of silence. "I think that is ultimately up to Canada to decide," England finally said with a frown. "He certainly won't appreciate us meddling in his personal affairs. And given our impending conversation, I see no reason to antagonize him any more than we must."

"You may be right," France sighed. He studied his reflection in the mirror, casting a critical eye from his hair, to the cut and fit of his suit, to the cufflinks peeping out at his wrists. Deciding that the burgundy suit was acceptable, he gave a satisfied nod to his reflection. "Very well. Let us go."

"Finally," England muttered. He spun and hurried over to the door, opening it and holding it open while he waited impatiently for France to stir himself into action.

France breezed out of the room without so much as casting a single look at England, who hurried after him.

The two men descended the single flight of stairs without speaking. They strolled past the long, glossy brown reception desk, through the green walled lounge, and arrived at the white french doors that led to The Dirty Habit.

One of the hotel staff was standing next to the door. She straightened as they walked up and gave them a friendly smile. "Mr. Kirkland, Mr. Bonnefoy," she greeted them. "Good evening. Mr. Williams and Mr. Beilschmidt are waiting inside." Turning, she quickly guided them through the main dining room to a small hallway lined with doors. Pausing in front of one set of heavy brown doors, she pulled them open and politely gestured for them to enter.

The private dining room was unusually narrow, the walls covered in a mixture of paint, wood panels, and faux metal plates. Cage-like light fixtures ran down the length of the ceiling and a large ornate clock was painted on the far wall. Five tables, turned at an angle, took up most of the space in the room. In contrast to the overall industrial design, however, were the high backed chairs placed neatly at each table, a dizzying mixture of fine carved wood and crushed red velvet. Surprisingly, the eclectic design perfectly filled the space: it was unique and visually stunning, but didn't grate or overwhelm any of the senses.

"Hey, losers," Prussia called out as they entered. Unlike Canada, who was sitting calmly with his hands folded neatly in his lap, he was practically _lounging_ in his chair, hands propped behind his head and looking for all the world like he was about to put his feet up on the table. He was certainly better groomed than he usually was of late, however, unlike everyone else in attendance,he wasn't wearing a suit.

Canada, meanwhile, was watching them with an unusual intensity, a hint of wariness in his arctic purple eyes. "Good evening," he said, giving England and France a small wave. "I hope you both have had a good day. It was nice to have time to relax and unwind after the NATO meeting, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so," England agreed. As he and France approached the square table, he pulled out a chair and seated himself across from Canada. Likewise, France took the seat next to him and across from Prussia.

"Tell me, Prussia," France began after sitting. He picked up the napkin sitting on his plate and laid it across his lap. "What brings you to North America? Germany did not mention you would be arriving."

"Eh, Hungary, Germany, and Spain being here meant things were so boring back home. Austria flipped out when I went to visit him so I decided, hey, who needs my awesome presence in their life?" He grinned and gave Canada a slap on the back. "This guy, that's who!"

Canada winced slightly at the friendly blow. "I don't mind, not really," he hurried to add. A dark look had appeared on England's face when Prussia whacked him on the shoulder. ' _If only he'd been this protective centuries ago,'_ Canada mused silently. "America's traveling right now, so it's going to be pretty quiet around here."

"And if America hadn't flitted off?" England narrowed his eyes.

"Then we'd be having a _crazy_ night," Prussia answered, stepping in neatly when Canada hesitated.

"I'm sure." Leaning back in his chair, England gave the pair across the table a long look. "Well, we may as well get started." He picked up the single sheet of heavy paper sitting underneath the napkin on his plate, skimming through the limited menu. "I haven't had the opportunity to dine here before," he continued. "Any recommendations?"

"Oh, um, it's all very good." Picking up his own menu, Canada looked over the different dishes. Prussia had requested that the menu be limited to just the most popular items. Putting the paper down, he picked up the leather bound wine list he'd been glancing over while he and Prussia had been waiting. He offered it across the table to France. "I was hoping you could suggest what wine we should have with dinner."

France took the wine list with a pleased expression. "It will be my pleasure," he agreed, quickly flipping the booklet open to peruse the different options.

Canada took a quiet breath as he watched England and France. With luck, they'd be able to enjoy a nice meal before they got to the real reason he'd asked for this meeting. His eyes flickered down, quickly confirming that the precious folder was still sitting in his lap. ' _It's just one meal,'_ he told himself, gritting his teeth as the pain from his lower legs sharpened and traveled upwards. ' _Just get through this and everything will be fine.'_


	12. Chapter 12

**_Author Note:_**

 _My DEEPEST apologies, Dear Readers, for not getting this chapter up last weekend! While my home and family were fortunate enough not to be severely impacted by Harvey, the process for the City of Houston getting back to regular business does come with a fair bit of chaos. Add in that the Editor is currently job hunting and you can see how our schedule got a bit battered._

 _To make it up to you, though, we have some **BONUS CONTENT** for you to enjoy. Details at the end._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

England determinedly chased after the last drizzles of strawberry flavoring that graced his plate. The long anticipated meal with Canada had actually gone quite well, despite Prussia's unexpected presence.

However, once they broached the touchy subject of the so-called Unites States of America, and his impact on the sweet lad sitting across from him, well, England did not imagine the atmosphere would remain pleasant after that. In fact, England felt very certain that the fiery spirit Canada hid under his normally mild-mannered demeanor was sure to surface as the conversation progressed.

Once the last remnants of his excellent dessert had finally been demolished, England set his fork down quietly and took a small sip of his wine, mentally preparing himself to broach the sensitive topic.

"Canada," England began after swallowing the mouthful of sweet dessert wine, "France and I were hoping we could speak with you about something."

The Commonwealth Nation jerked his head up, giving him a startled look. His eyes then flickered over to Prussia who snorted softly, apparently unsurprised by England's sudden words. Beside him, France frowned softly, his eyes moving between the two men sitting across from him.

"Of course," Canada replied as he tilted his head slightly to the side. Unseen by England or France, his hands shifted under the table, one to press down on his stomach where sharp pain was erupting, the other clutching at the folder hiding in his lap. "I assume you want to talk about America, correct?" he asked, forcing himself to speak normally.

"You must understand," France interjected, swirling his wine glass absentmindedly in one hand, "that we are concerned and wish only the best for you."

"Right, as if you've never had an ulterior motive in your life," Prussia snarked. Rolling his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Go ahead, spit it out," he drawled.

England shot an irritated look at Prussia. He had no part in this discussion - he wasn't even a proper Nation anymore. By rights, he should have withdrawn from the room the moment England had spoken! There would be no getting rid of him, though, not when Canada was so taken with him. Perhaps France had been right earlier about sending Prussia packing. But he was getting distracted from the far more important issue at hand.

"As France was saying," England continued, "there are some very really and obvious concerns that are yet to be addressed, and you, well, you my dear boy seem to be completely blind to these very worrisome issues."

Canada's fist clenched, crushing the folder he held. "Really? And exactly what are these issues that I'm so unaware of?" he ground out around near gritted teeth, his eyes igniting.

England and France shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the sudden shift in Canada's mood. To their surprise, Prussia reached out and settled a hand on Canada's arm. The German Nation was appalled by the ridiculous behavior of the men across from him, but he knew Canada wanted this meeting to end well, and the Northern Nation losing his temper would not facilitate that outcome. All three watched as Canada took a deep breath and gradually reigned in his burgeoning emotions.

France, knowing England was woefully lacking in both tact and finesse, decided to take back over. "Canada, it is undeniable that England and myself have made many drunken complaints about America, and clearly neither of us was in good form on any of these occasions; however, with all participants sober and fair-minded, there's no reason that we cannot discuss this like gentlemen. We only ask that you hear us with an open mind."

"And when you're finished maligning my brother, you'll hear me out with an open mind?" the Northern Nation pushed, eyes hard and voice unyielding.

France didn't falter. "Of course," he replied graciously, "like gentlemen, just as I said." When Canada gestured for him to continue, he forged ahead. "Very well, let's start with the events in Austin, shall we? I will freely admit that America's actions to rescue myself and the others were both admirable and extraordinary, but those actions were in sharp contrast to his behavior after the fact. I'm sure you will recall at the hospital that he was rash, uncouth, loud, aggressive . . . need I go on? This man was an emotional powder keg that seemed to be set off at the slightest provocation. _Petit_ , he had confrontations with individuals in hospital beds, and some of those over Micronations. Surely you can see how these wild and contrasting behaviors could lead one to believe that he is unstable."

"But-"

"Non, please, I am not finished. _Petit,_ I am happy to hear your side, but I think that we will progress best if England and I are allowed to air all of our grievances first, no?"

Canada nodded in concession. It was likely that if he started speaking now that the conversation would degenerate into an argument and nothing that he'd planned would get accomplished. He just hoped France would hurry. The strange pain was intensifying, a feeling like knives sliding across his skin, and he didn't know how much longer he could hide it.

Unaware of Canada's growing discomfort, France pressed on. "So, even if there were a reasonable explanation for his erratic behavior, you also must admit that the timing of the events is quite suspect. We are really to believe that for hundreds of years he avoided others like ourselves, as well as his own government, but then he just happens to be at a conference with nearly a dozen Nations in attendance, and just happens to be enrolled as a student at the University where the conference is being held and, more than that, has intimate and detailed knowledge of a network of underground tunnels that are otherwise closed to all but a select few campus personnel? I'm afraid, dear one, that the coincidences are far too many with too few explanations."

Prussia looked to Canada, gauging his reaction. Even to him, even with his memories of a young America at Valley Forge, France was making some compelling arguments. But one glimpse of Canada's stony visage in the face of France's onslaught of logical points solidified his resolve. Of everyone at the table, Canada knew America best. If he was unfazed, then Prussia would continue to support him. It was time to move this along.

"Frog, you talk and talk. Enough. If you have a point, then make it. Otherwise, be a man of your word and allow Canada to speak."

France glared at Prussia. "My point, is simply this: with all of these coincidences and variables and a lack of any verifiable information, then is it not unreasonable for England or myself to question America's motives, his sudden appearance on the world stage, or whether or not he may have been complicit in the events in Austin?"

Unable to remain silent any longer, England finally cut in. "Canada, can't you see this charlatan has hoodwinked you? There are 7 billion people in the world, and certainly there is a striking resemblance between you, but stories of doppelgangers abound for a reason. The truth is we have no evidence that he truly is who he claims to be. Can you not see that we are worried for you? We are worried for everyone of our kind. You mustn't allow him to sway you so," England implored, "at least, not until we know more about him, have some more concrete information as to his identity and his past."

"Are you done?" Canada asked icily. "Is it my turn now?"

"Of course," France agreed, somewhat disturbed by Canada's continued hostile demeanor, "a deal is a deal."

"Fine, you wanted to start in Austin, we'll start in Austin. His actions in Austin were nothing short of heroic. He saved you. He saved you all, and, if you'll recall, he did so with Prussia and I's help. Yes, the plan was sparse, but it wasn't as non-existent as you always suppose it was. And no, he didn't have much intel, or help, but that didn't stop him from facing overwhelming odds to rescue each and everyone of you.

"As for his behavior at the hospital, is it really that surprising to you? Is it surprising that a Nation that has spent hundreds of years isolated from his own kind might suddenly find it overwhelming to be surrounded by a number of other Nations he doesn't know? Do you really find it that hard to believe that after so long by himself that he might struggle with even the most basic of interactions, even though I'd hardly call the situation he found himself in basic? Did it occur to you, even for moment, that he was coming down from an epic adrenaline rush, and that maybe, just maybe, after facing off with several dozen terrorists that he might be even the slightest bit out of sorts, off kilter? In that context, was his behavior really that strange?

"None of us, not even you, were at our best that evening. We were all exhausted and frazzled. Given that America was also having to deal with being thrown into a completely foreign situation, I would say he did a hell of a job of keeping things together that night."

England cut in belligerently. "You cannot discount the coincidence-"

"Let. Me. Finish."

England started, shocked at the commanding tone.

"I will admit," Canada reluctantly continued, "that America's presence in Austin was rather coincidental, and that I can't account for. However, I can account for why he eluded both us and his government. As far as his lack of contact with others like ourselves, you are misinformed. As we have discussed before, he did have contact with Native Nations and it did not go well. But regarding his government, it wasn't his fault he never worked with them, it was theirs."

"How do you mean?" France inquired, curiosity piqued.

Canada pulled the folder from his lap, laying it on the table while he extracted the two sets of copies, then extended them to England and France. "These documents not only address the issue of why America was not a part of his government, it also provides the proof of identity you so desperately desire," he stated in a cold, flat voice.

Wordlessly, England took the documents and flipped through the pages, France doing the same with his own copy.

The men were silent for several minutes as they read through the letter. France's expression turned thoughtful, and he pursed his lips as his eyes flickered from line to line.

"You don't expect us to believe this," England sputtered after he finally flipped to the last page. "It's clearly a forgery."

"We got in touch with Ms. Williams at the State Department, and it was she who provided these to us," Canada replied simply.

"Also, the University of Virginia is always forging Presidential documents," Prussia responded sarcastically. "Dummkopf. But if it still is not enough, I also had some memories surface after reading the letter."

"You?" France inquired. His expression had closed off, eyes intense. The wheels turning in his mind were practically visible as he absorbed this new information; Prussia had seen it countless times. England might still be holding out but France, at least, was willing to listen.

Grimacing, Prussia slouched down in his seat. "I came over with Steuben during the Revolution, remember that, France?" When the other Nation nodded, Prussia continued. "Steuben and I trained the Americans in being proper soldiers. And they desperately needed the help of my awesome self. They had the passion and sharpshooting skills, but there's more to being a soldier.

"Training the Americans meant living with them, even during the worst winter in Valley Forge." Prussia shuddered. It had taken over a century for the horror of the biting cold, frostbite, starvation, and constant death to fade. Even now, that time, that place, brought back awful memories. Pushing them aside, Prussia continued. "I didn't think anything of it then," he continued. "Why would I? England," he cast a quick look at the green eyed Nation, "had been going on for more than a century about his new territory; that it was just a larger part of himself. So naturally, it didn't have a new personification."

"What precisely are you saying?" France asked.

Reaching forward, Prussia tugged the copy of Washington's letter from France's hands and slapped it down on the table. He quickly paged through until he found the description of the young personification and jabbed a finger down on the relevant paragraph.

"There were a lot of kids running around. Too many, really, if you judge it by modern values. But one of them stood out."

"You saw him," France realized. If this was true, it would go a long way to confirming everything America had said.

Prussia nodded. "I did. Und felt his presence. I didn't recognize him, though," he regretfully admitted. "Everyone knew, unlike Canada, that England's American colonies had no personification, so I assumed it was someone else, another Nation supporting the rebellion but didn't want word getting out."

Canada turned his head slightly to look at Prussia. "Were there a lot of Nations who were doing that?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"A few," Prussia responded, hesitating for a moment before pushing on. "That guy," he continued, jerking his head towards England, "pissed off a lot of guys back then. So when the American colonists declared independence, there were many Nations who wanted to stir up trouble for him."

"Prussia is correct," France confirmed. "I also heard from several Nations who wished to offer aid and support to the rebellious forces. I must confess, I did help arrange the transfer of funds and goods from many others."

England shot him a shocked look, a feeling of betrayal sweeping through him.

France was undaunted by the dismay emanating from England, however, and continued. "These Nations also conveyed their expectation that they would have the opportunity to aid in the development of the personification who they believed would appear should the rebelling forces prove victorious."

A palpable chill swept through the room. How would things have changed had the Nations of Europe been given the opportunity to mold and shape the young American personification? With no experience in their ways or formal education in politics, would he have been able to withstand the power struggle that would have followed? Would he have been able to stand against the self-serving guidance being offered to him, seeking to sway the developing Nation to favor one Nation or another?

"I will concede that this does explain why his government did not seek him out," France concluded after allowing his last statement to linger, "but it does not explain why he was not drawn to his government, to the seat of political power as we all were."

"Doesn't it though?" Prussia challenged. "The United States of America is not like us, like Europe. The ideals of this country, they do not put political power with an individual. Nein, Americans believe, Washington believed, that political power rested with the people. His story is more believable because of this. He claims to have spent all these years simply among his people, learning from them. If the ideals of this country are that political power lies with the people, then it makes sense that he chose to spend time with them. There was no reason for him to be drawn to Washington, D.C. It may have been the center of the government, but it was not the place of political power. By your own reasoning, he was exactly where he was supposed to be."

"No!" England snapped. "We are Nations. We work with our national governments. It is not a choice. It is an obligation, our duty. We do not have the luxury or freedom to choose otherwise. We are servants, we have always been servants, and we will always be servants. Nobody, not one other Nation for the thousands of years we have existed has been afforded this kind of opportunity, but we are just supposed to believe that America is different, so he gets to be special? Preposterous!

"Furthermore, nothing you have shown us address the more recent issues. Has the American State Department found another letter that shows he chose the University of Texas at random? Have they verified that he has never been in contact with other personifications or foreign powers? This-" he slammed his hand down on the photocopy sitting on the table, "absolutely _fails_ to address the very real danger we found ourselves in mere months ago! No, I need _evidence_ , _proof_ that he isn't a charlatan. That he isn't working with _them_ for some selfish reason!"

"What do you want?!" Canada roared, slamming his hands down on the table and surging to his feet. His chair toppled over backwards, the hardwood impacting the metal plate on the wall with a sudden clatter. Across the table, France and England recoiled in shock, but he didn't care. His blood was boiling in a way that was rare. "Do you need a recording of his entire life, documentation of each and every decision he has ever made? What would it take?"

Slowly, Canada straightened, his hands falling to his sides. "I remember him, England. For years, I thought I was remembering an imaginary friend because I couldn't see any other reason why there would ever be someone that close to me. I've lived _centuries_ without him. We're _connected_ , in a way I can't even begin to describe, and have been even while we were apart. And now that I have him back?" He shook his head slowly, angry eyes never leaving England's face. "I will not give him up. Not even for you or your self righteous jealousy."

Canada bent over and dragged his chair back upright. Then, with a final angry look, he turned and stalked out of the room.

"That could have gone better," Prussia muttered. "Well, that's all for tonight," he announced as he stood up, pushing his chair back, the legs scraping across tile. "You may have noticed I shared some personal memories of the American War for Independence. You'll find those after the Washington letter. Have a nice flight."

With a final jaunty wave, Prussia sauntered out of the room, conscious of the eyes following his every movement. Once he passed through the doorway and was out of sight, he broke into a run and darted through the main dining room, the hotel lobby, and dashed up the staircase, racing towards Canada's room. The gentle hearted Nation was going to need a friend.

Back in the narrow private room, France drained the last of his wine and stood. Plucking the half-empty wine bottle from its stand and the documents off the table, he tucked the items under an arm and bent down to gently kiss England's cheek. "I believe we both have much to consider this evening," he murmured. "I am at your disposal should you need it." Then, he, too, straightened and left the room.

And now, England was alone. Silence filled the room, bearing down on the isolated Nation like a lead blanket. A small tremor briefly appeared before being quickly stifled. But then it returned, again and again. Shaking, England clamored to his feet, hands clumsy as he gathered the papers Canada had given him. A familiar burning filled his cheeks and eyes. His lips were determinedly pressed together to hide the way they wanted to quiver. It had been a long, long time since he'd felt so thoroughly rejected. So alone. It hurt, pain knotting up inside him. Clutching the papers to his chest, England fled.

* * *

 ** _Author Note:_** _England, what in the world are you doing? Well, to find out more, we've started a companion story: **Tales of Woe**. Go check it out!_


	13. Chapter 13

POSTING SCHEDULE CHANGE

The Good News: The Editor has a new job!

The Bad News: Due to New Job Training, the Editor will not have nearly as much time to do edits going for the next several weeks and we're going to have to shift out posting schedule to every TWO weeks, instead of every week. Sorry, folks. The next several chapters are INTENSE and we really need to make sure we give them the full editing treatment they deserve.

* * *

 **Warning: verbal abuse, threat of sexual assault, violence**

* * *

"This heat, it is unbearable," Aleksey complained, stripping off his camo jacket and revealing a sweat soaked green t-shirt beneath. More sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip.

"You are wrong, my friend. In Israel, it is hot. This, this is humidity." Yosef drawled, rearranging the cards in his hand.

Scowling, Aleksey turned to the leader of their small group. "Bobby, this is not good working conditions. You are being unreasonable. We open the big doors, there is air, everyone is happy."

"For the last time, I'm not opening those doors," Bobby snapped. "Get it through that damn thick Russian skull of yours. We are here _incognito_. That means we keep everything locked down tight. We can't afford for some aircraft to go flying over the top of the island and notice that there are a bunch of people running around. Our orders are to stay out of sight, and that's exactly what we're going to do. So shut your damn trap and play cards. Yosef and Nathan are kicking our asses. Thought you said you knew how to play _Hearts_."

"You know," Nathan interrupted, "you could use the fancy satellite phone you are so stingy with and ask them to deliver, ah, _air conditioner_. Ce serait magnifique." He paused to mop at a drop of sweat running down the side of his face, then threw the last trump on the table, he caught the trick and smiled. "I believe that is the game, messieurs."

Defeated, Bobby threw his cards down on the table and unleashed a volley of curse words. He knew he shouldn't have been betting on this damn game. Now he was out $500. Frustrated, he pushed away from the table, looking around. "Where the hell is Carl?"

"He went to take a piss. The phone?" Nathan pushed.

"You can't be serious," Bobby gaped for a moment, then stared pleadingly up at the ceiling for a moment before glaring. "How in the world did I get stuck with such morons? The sat phone is for official business. We are here on a mission. It is probably the single most important, most significant cause you will ever have the opportunity to be a part of in your pathetic lives, so stop whining like a bunch 8-year-old girls and do your damn job!"

"Why all the shouting?" Carl groaned as he pushed his way through the heavy steel doors leading into the room.

"Please, you talk to him, get him to see reason," Aleksey implored the German soldier.

"What is the problem?"

" _What is the problem?"_ Nathan mocked. "Obviously, it is sweltering in here."

Carl nodded his understanding. Without hesitating, he drew his sidearm and shot out the windows on either side of the building. "Problem solved," he announced in satisfaction, holstering his weapon.

The others sat shocked, their ears ringing as the sound of the gunshot ricocheted around the room.

"What in the _fucking hell-_ "

The beginning of Bobby's tirade was cut off by the walkie-talkie on the corner of the table crackling to life. Tosetti's voice came out in a static fit, " _Decontamination room, what the hell is happening over there? Report, now!"_

Bobby snatched up the device before any of the other idiots could make a move. "Everything is under control. Carl's being a damned idiot, is all. The packages are still secure," he snarled, glaring hatefully at the man still lingering next to the doors.

" _Get your people under control. We can't afford any mistakes."_

"If these were my people," Bobby snapped back, "we'd have this under control. I can only work with what I'm given. And you gave me shit."

" _Just fix it."_

"Yes sir." Bobby placed the walkie back on the table, crossed the short distance over to Carl, and slammed a hard fist into his face, sending the German to the ground. Bobby glared down at the man, "You pull another fool stunt like that, the next set of bullets that fly will be the ones I put in you. What is happening here is too important to let some pissant like you to screw it up." With that, he delivered a sharp kick to Carl's ribs, then turned to the men at the table. "That goes for you too. This organization saved you from your miserable, worthless lives, not out of the goodness of our hearts, but to do a job. We have given you the opportunity to be part of something great. So get your shit together."

Needing some distance from the second-rate soldiers, Bobby grabbed a chair, drug it closer to the cell and waited for the prisoners to wake up.

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly. There was a weight pressed against his side, painful pinching at his wrists, a horrific pounding in his head. Then came the smell of bleach, metal, blood, and sweat. The vague roaring in his ears started to form coherent sound and the bitter, aggressive words echoing and bouncing off hard surfaces sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Finally, Germany cracked his eyes open, only a little bit at a time so he could adjust to the light.

He purposely lay still, trying not to alter the pattern of his breathing and moving his eyelids in slow increments. The smell of blood, he realized, came from himself and from the weight next to him. Bleach and metal surrounded him and there was a painfully hard surface under his back.

Even with how slowly he opened his eyes, Germany found that the light only aggravated the pounding, piercing pain in his head. He bit back a pained whimper, wanting nothing more than to curl up and hide until everything went away.

But he couldn't hide. Something had happened, he was in danger. And- there had been others, hadn't there?

Germany shut his eyes once more, mind racing as he struggled to piece together scattered memories. After lying still for several long moments, he started to gather the fragments. There had been a meeting. Italy, America. And dinner somewhere - he remembered watching America eating plate after plate while telling stories.

And then- what?

Struggling not to furrow his brow, Germany slowly dredged through his memories, feeling as though he was swimming in molasses.

Japan - they had decided to go see Japan.

And the meeting had been in Washington, so-

Plane.

The plane had filled with smoke. They had worn oxygen masks, bracing as the plane desperately raced to safety. The pilots had landed the plane successfully. There had a been a moment of silence, when there were no shouting stewards or Italy crying. A moment where they realized they had made it.

And then . . .

Gunshots. Pain. Darkness.

Then, he'd started to sit up in his seat. America's head exploded in a shower of blood and brains. Darkness fell and he knew nothing.

 _Mein Gott_. They had been captured! It was just like Austin, he realized. Panic started to build within him. Not again, _he couldn't go through that again_.

A sudden pained sound abruptly interrupted Germany's growing panic.

"I hurt all over," Italy whimpered.

Germany felt the smaller nation burrow deeper into his side.

"Make it stop." Italy's voice vibrated against Germany's side. "I feel like I was shot."

"Well, well, well, looks like our guests are finally awake!" a booming voice cackled from nearby. The sudden words were far too gleeful, and disturbingly familiar, for comfort.

Deciding it was pointless now to continue to feign unconsciousness, Germany opened his eyes and slowly sat up, pulling Italy up along with him.

He and Italy were locked in a cell, their hands bound before them in painfully tight handcuffs. The cage looked as though it had been assembled in great haste; the sides of the cages were crudely welded together at their edges with the door of the cage at the end farthest from them.

The room they were in was very unusual. It appeared to be a strange overlarge shower, complete with green tile and at least forty or fifty shower heads and matching drains extending down the long space on both walls. Past the bars of their hastily constructed cell, several guards sat around a rickety folding table playing cards. Solid looking steel doors, each with a small window, were visible past the guards at the far end of the room. Two broken windows on either side of the building completed the room.

A man stood in front of a chair sitting near the cage, staring at them with a twisted sneer. And Germany knew this man - it was one of the stewards from the plane. _Bobby_. The name floated into Germany's sluggish mind. Even with the distance between them, Germany could see the hate in Bobby's eyes. The palpable hostility was a stunning contrast to the lighthearted cheer the steward had feigned hours earlier in Hawaii.

Behind Bobby, the four men at the table all turned to look at them, and then, there was a faint snicker.

"What do we care about these _étrange créatures_?" one of the men sneered. "Especially when they are Nazis and fascists?"

"Shut up, Nathan," Bobby snapped, shooting a sharp look over his shoulder.

At Germany's side, Italy stiffened. Small hands bound tightly together clutched at his shirt, short nails scratching against dried blood.

"Germany, what's going on?" Italy whispered. He cast a fearful look at the men gathered around the card table. They were all clad is green camo patterned fatigues. Handguns were strapped to their hips and some even had knives sticking up out of their combat boots. Several rifles were leaned against the wall near the table.

"Hush, Italy," Germany responded in a tense voice, his eyes locked on Bobby.

"You want to know what's going on?" Bobby slowly stalked forward in a proud swagger. He stopped outside the cage, just out of reach. He extended his arms to the side, looking like he wanted to give them some kind of perverse hug. "You're our guests," he boasted with a mocking sneer. "You should be grateful," he continued. "You're sitting in the lap of luxury compared to what the _other_ freak is going through right now."

Italy went white while Germany ground his teeth together. They'd both momentarily forgotten about America, hadn't pieced together that he was missing.

"Who are you?" Germany roared. His voice was booming and powerful, rolling with the air of command. For a moment, he saw one of the men still at the table jerk, almost as though controlling some involuntary movement. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This," Bobby answered, "this is your last stop; it's the end of you and your entire twisted species." He leaned in close. "You barely escaped us in Austin," he hissed, "you won't be so lucky this time."

* * *

" _Freaks!"_

" _Monsters!"_

" _Can't wait for them to slice you open!"_

" _Gonna make you beg!"_

Italy pressed his face against his bent knees, desperate to block out the relentless onslaught of taunts and threats from the sneering, hate-filled guards. The verbal assault of the guards had grown increasing violent and vulgar as time had passed. Unfortunately, they had grown tired of talk and had moved to action. His hand still hurt from the first blow. He hadn't been expecting it. The guard had moved around the cage casually, nonchalant, maneuvering until he was behind Italy before thrusting the butt of his rifle through the bars and smashing it down, crushing bound hands into the tile below.

They'd laughed, evil mirth filling their eyes when he cried out in pain, taunts and jeers once again filling the air as he whimpered and moved closer to Germany for comfort and protection.

They had gotten in a few more glancing blows, one to his shoulder, a few to Germany's ribs, before they were able to get the very center of their cell, just out of reach of the guards abusive treatment.

Germany watched now as the guards began to once again get restless, agitated that they could not reach their prey, could not have their fun. He watched as they started to eye the door, contemplating coming in to get what they wanted, watched as the leader, Bobby, walked up with a new device of torment, torture - stun batons. He pressed his shoulder against Italy's, briefly resting his head against the smaller Nation's.

"Stay here. No matter what, stay here." Germany whispered firmly to Italy, then, straightening up, he shifted away, knowing the only way to keep them from coming into the cell, was to give them what they desired. His pain. His suffering. But this way, at least for a little while, he could stop them from hurting Italy too.

Italy panicked as Germany moved away. "W-w-what? No Germany, you-"

The Mediterranean Nation watched in horror as the first guard reached through the bars and made contact. Sat in silent shock while his brain tried to process the image of Germany rigid, collapsing and writhing on the ground in pain.

Then the scream ripped from his throat. "Nooo! You leave him alone! Stop it! STOP IT!" Just as he shifted to move towards Germany, his friend's words echoed through his head, 'Stay here.' The realization was soul-wrenching. Germany had done this for him, to protect him. The tears came unbidden, streaming unceasingly down his face.

And with each fresh jab, Italy screamed for their tormentors to stop. But never did he move. He would not disrespect Germany's choice by endangering himself.

Just when Italy thought he couldn't bear anymore, the double doors at the end of the room flew open with a loud _bang_ drawing the attention of their captors.

Syd appeared rolling a small cart laden with the luggage from the plane - Italy, Germany, and America's personal belongings.

"Boss said our guests weren't going to need this stuff anymore," Syd announced with a smirk. "Since the freaks live such fancy lives stealing from the oppressed workers, I figured it was only fair that we get first dibs."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Bobby agreed.

The guards moved away quickly, eager to rifle through the Nations' belongs and claim them as their own. As they did, Italy scrambled to where Germany lay on the floor, his breathing labored with tremors running through his body. Biting his lip, Italy grabbed his shirt and dragged him determinedly back to the center of their cell, then huddled protectively over him.

"Oh yeah," Syd realized, glancing back over at Bobby, "you're supposed to go to the main building."

"Why?"

"Some shit about needing your input about leaving. Apparently the doc lady is taking her sweet time, so we might need to move the freaks with us, so she can finish her work. Said our window will be closing soon, and they don't want the extra cargo causing problems."

Bobby rolled his eyes. Did he have to do everything around here? "Fine. Hopefully this won't take long. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. If anything goes wrong, and I mean _anything_ , you radio it in."

"Yeah, yeah," Syd replied dismissively. He was already eyeing their captives' luggage once more.

Bobby shook his head in frustration, but he didn't have time to kick Syd's ass and make him listen. Tosetti probably wanted him there 10 minutes ago. He moved to collect his weapons and the satellite phone, then headed for the main building. The large metal doors clanged shut loudly behind him as he exited the holding area.

"Well, lookie here," Syd suddenly announced. He smirked unpleasantly as he dragged white linen off the cavalry sword America had planned to give to Japan. Drawing the weapon from its sheathe, the guard began to clumsily swipe it back and forth.

"You are looking like idiot," Aleksey laughed, stepping out of range of the swinging blade.

Syd glared, halting his wild waves with the deadly weapon. A sinister look suddenly crossed his face. "I bet those two know plenty about using swords," he suddenly mused, turning to look at the captured Nations. "Bet they've spent centuries wandering around chopping good innocent folks to pieces just for the heck of it." He paused, taking in the obvious terror on Italy's face. "Well, the Nazi probably did."

Nathan rolled his eyes, "And what, _por favor_ , is your point?"

"My point," Syd snarked back, "is that maybe they'd like to show us how it's done."

With a manic grin, the mercenary stalked up to the cage, unlocking the door and moving straight for Italy. Syd seized Italy's arm, yanking him up and away from Germany and out of the cage.

Germany's addled brain took too long to process the events happening around him. By the time he realized Italy was in danger and had scrambled to his feet, the door to the cage was slammed shut with a loud _clang_.

Italy found himself shoved into the middle of a circle of guards, all of them leering at him. The fear of what they were going to do to him causing visible tremors to ripple through his body. To his surprise, though, the guard wielding America's sword shoved it into his bound hands and then stepped back.

"Come on, then," Syd taunted. "Show us how it's done. How did all you freaks go around killing innocent people? Any favorite moves?"

Italy stared at the sword in disbelief then back at the guards surrounding him.

"No funny business," Carl smirked, holding up his gun. "Unless you want to be made full of bullet holes."

Gulping, Italy did his best to grasp the sword. "Th-this is a ca-cavalry saber," he began, voice shaking. "I was n-never very good at fighting. I'd much rather paint." Then, for a moment, Italy could see past the guards.

Germany was pressed up against the bars, his bound hands clutching white-knuckled at the iron barrier, genuine terror on his face.

' _He's afraid for me,'_ Italy realized. He'd never seen that look on Germany's face before

"You'd rather paint?" Syd suddenly demanded in an incredulous voice. "And here I thought you were supposed to be a man," he snorted. "Maybe we should drag those pants off you, see exactly what you're packing," he added, a malicious gleam appearing in his eyes.

 _Spaventoso._ They were just _spaventoso_. Horrible, frightening, ghastly - Italy didn't know enough words to describe these awful, awful men. For a moment, though, the horrible guard's words reminded him of someone else, someone who had never realized he was a boy.

He'd died before Italy could ever tell him the truth.

The memory of Holy Rome, the sight of Germany's terrified face loomed large in his mind for a moment, only to be wiped away by the horrible terrorists surrounding him. They were just like the ones from Austin, the ones who had hurt him, drugged him, and promised to kill him. As the guards cackled and jeered, they began to lash out, pushing and shoving him back and forth, sending him bouncing around like a pinball. Their depraved laughter echoed through the room.

The sound faded, became an incoherent muffle. His blood was pounding, rushing audibly in his ears. As his thoughts continued to swirl, Italy found himself thinking of his grandfather. What would he do in this situation?

A hand clamped down onto his shoulder and wrenched him around. The foul stench of Syd's breath blew against his face as the man loomed over him. The smile on his face was dark and twisted.

' _Grandfather, please help me.'_

* * *

 _Author Note: See you in two week!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Author Note: Sorry for taking an extra week off! I really wish there was an easy way to post notifications and messages for all you wonderful readers. The Editor's new job training is more intense and time consuming than we expected, which is why we weren't able to post last week. We may have another three week lull between updates for the next chapter, but after that, we'll be back on a two week update schedule. And the next several chapters are LONG._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Scroll to the bottom for news about future updates! Updated 7-24-2018**

* * *

 _ **Warning: violence, description of violent events**_

* * *

Italy stared into the leering face of the terrorist gripping tight to his shoulder. The scent of foul breath and sweat filled his nostrils as the former plane steward grinned maliciously at him.

As Syd leaned in, Italy heard a barely-there voice whisper in his ear: " _Soldiers must either vanquish or die; there is no hope for survival in defeat."_

 _Grandpa Rome_.

Without thinking, Italy snapped the blade up, his fear giving unexpected strength to his arms. Syd lurched back, screaming. His hand fell to the floor. Almost on its own, the sword lashed out again, this time catching him across the ribs and sending him flying.

The sight of the Syd falling back in pain and terror - it did something to him, to Italia. Fire erupted inside him and a wolf howled in anger.

His grandfather's voice hissed again: " _There is no room for the notion of retreat! This is your test of courage - of honor!"_

With an enraged scream, Italy launched himself at Nathan, thrusting the sword out in front of him. The blade stabbed perfectly between the guard's ribs and into his heart. Before the sword could catch on bone, Italy yanked the blade free and lunged again.

These horrible men wanted to use him, to hurt him, and kill him. To kill Germany. Not again! He would not lose Germany like he had Holy Rome! A burning, bottomless madness suddenly swept over him. The world narrowed until it was just him and the sword.

It didn't matter anymore that Italy's hands were bound. It didn't matter that he preferred running from a battle to standing firm. They had threatened him. They had threatened Germany. They had _frightened_ Germany and treated them both as though they were some sort of private freak show. He wouldn't let them hurt anyone else ever again!

He attacked.

Germany watched awestruck as Italy's blows accelerated, each attack moving faster and with more surety. The faint ghostly outline of a ravening wolf surrounded him, snapping and snarling as he tore after his quarry. The guards were terrified, screaming as they struggled to flee. They forgot their guns, forgot their training, and were reduced to a mob of terrified prey.

Italy was tearing his way through the last of the guards when Germany heard the cell door bang open. Turning, he forced himself to tear his eyes away from the shocking and violent scene. Carl, clutching at bleeding wounds, was dragging himself into the cell. Germany didn't hesitate. He leapt forward, ripping the handcuff keys off the guard's belt, and rushed out.

The last of the guard, Yosef, fell, the sword buried in his chest.

"Italy!" Germany roared, rushing towards the normally relaxed Nation.

Italy spun around, tearing the sword out of the guard's chest. His eyes were wild and unfocused. He looked for a moment less like the Italy Germany knew so well and more like a rabid dog. Suddenly, those wild eyes sharpened.

"Germany!" Italy wailed. The sword fell from his hands and hit the floor with a loud _clang_. He rushed forward and latched onto Germany's shirt, buried his head in his chest, and burst into tears.

Awkwardly, Germany, raised then lowered his arms around the sobbing Italian, still clutching the keys in his bound hands. "It, it will be alright," he offered, desperately trying to find the words to comfort his closest friend. "I promise that- Italy, this would be much easier if I could free my hands."

A bark of hysterical laughter suddenly exploded out of Italy. Wild giggles started to intersperse the sobs. After several long moments, Italy managed to raise his head. His face was blotchy and red, snot running from his nose while tears continued to stream. A half smile, half sob overtook his face and he shifted, turning slightly so he could see Germany's hands. Spotting the keys, Italy reached forward and unlocked the metal cuffs with shaking hands.

As soon as Germany's hands were free, he grabbed the keys from Italy and freed his hands as well. As he moved to comfort Italy once more, he froze, noticing a trail of blood leading out through the doors. He spun immediately, surveying the room, counting the bodies. Short, they were one guard short.

"Italy, I know you are upset, but one of the guards has escaped. We must move quickly."

Italy, heeding the urgency in Germany's voice, closed his eyes and took a few deep shuddering breaths. Finally, he looked up, "I'll be okay."

"There is one guard left to question," he said swiftly, nodding towards the cell behind them. "I am not certain how much he will be able to say."

"Well, we won't know until we ask him," Italy responded, still shaking slightly.

Germany nodded and moved purposely over to the dying man.

Carl was lying on his side, clutching at his wounds as he lay limp on the ground. Italy recognized that he would not survive without immediate medical attention. ' _I did that,'_ he realized.

Terrified eyes looked up at Germany as he approached. "En-entschuldigung," the guard whimpered. "Vergib mir," he begged, his voice growing weak.

"He's one of your's," Italy whispered in shock.

Dismay filled Germany. No. He couldn't walk down this dark path again, not the path of murder and genocide. Germany stared at the guard, trying to decide what to do. The guard was fading quickly, their chance at learning what in _hell_ was going on slipping away.

"Germany, can you. . . " Italy's voice trailed off for a moment. He started again, speaking slower. "I know not all of us can but- Can you lean on his mind?"

That- that honestly hadn't occurred to him. It- it wasn't something their kind _talked_ about in the open. Germany felt his stomach twist. He had managed it before, but it didn't come easily or naturally to him. He wasn't Austria, constantly reveling in the symphonies and concertos playing in his citizens' minds. He was much more like Prussia, grounded in words and actions, not the half-true imaginings that filled humans' minds.

"I will try," he grudgingly promised. That was all he could do. Reluctantly, he bent down, grasped his cursed citizen's head in his hands, and dove into his mind.

* * *

Germany was silent as he gently arranged his countryman's body into a more dignified position. He did not agree with the decisions the man had made, the cause he had devoted himself to. He could not reject, however, the sincerity with which he had acted, the desire to improve the world that had motivated him. The true tragedy was that the path he had chosen to walk to serve and protect mankind had led to such horrific acts. He was painfully familiar with how easily perverted those intentions could be. It was not in Germany to forgive the acts he had committed. Instead, he felt sorrow: sorrow for the perversion of noble ideals, sorrow for the loss of life, and sorrow for having so utterly failed one of his people.

Nearby, Italy quickly checked the bodies of the guards he had killed. He forced himself to move from one still-warm body to the next, confirming they were dead and checking their pockets and belts for tools and supplies he and Germany might be able to use. He pushed down the grief and guilt that threatened to overtake him. He ignored the fear that was trying to poison him. He had to be strong, reliable, dependable. Germany was hurting and America was missing. They didn't have time to deal with his weakness, not when one of the guards had escaped. They only had minutes before the alarm was raised. If it hadn't been already.

As Italy was bent over checking the last body, he heard Germany moving behind him. There was a sudden complaint of metal being bent and twisted out of shape. Glancing up, he saw that Germany had forced the key into the lock of the cage, twisting it until it was jammed and immovable. They wouldn't be locked away in there again, at least.

Finishing with the last guard, Italy swiftly gathered up the small arms and ammunition he had collected and moved to put them in his now empty leather duffle. He'd also hastily grabbed a few items that looked useful: watches, ration packs, a medical kit, and string. He only allowed himself a brief look of longing towards the personal items he would be leaving behind.

He'd arranged the larger weapons along the wall, close to the rifles leaning untouched against the green tile. Germany was now going through them, his hands were steady and unhesitating as he rapidly checked the chamber, checked the clips, and made sure all the components had been correctly assembled. He went down the line quickly, checking each rifle with the confidence born of experience.

Italy stood nearby, absently fingering a stray thread sticking out of one of the seams of his bag, watching anxiously as Germany moved quickly from one weapon to the next. A solemn silence filled the room, as Germany began to methodically concealed as many of the weapons as possible on his person.

The task complete, Germany turned to Italy, who promptly pointed to one final item: "There's a radio," was all he said.

Germany hurried over to the table and picked up the device. It was a simple, short range walkie-talkie. Useless for calling outside help, but it would allow them to track the enemy. He clipped it to his belt and turned back to Italy.

"We are on a small island near Hawaii named the Johnston Atoll," Germany began without preamble. "It is American territory but unoccupied. It was previously used for weapons testing and chemical weapons storage."

"Is this really the same group as in Austin?" Italy asked, staring at Germany with a mix of hope and dread. If it was, then they had a decent understanding of the group's motivations, although this would mean they had far more resources than any of them had thought.

"It is," Germany confirmed. Pressing his lips together, he mentally reviewed the information he'd been able to glean from Carl's mind. "They call themselves Custodes Populi. As we already know, their goal is to eradicate us." He couldn't suppress the grimace that overtook his face. "Unfortunately, they appear to operate in cells. Carl did not know as much as we would have hoped he did. But with luck, it should be enough to allow us to escape."

"What are they doing to America?" A sick feeling had been sitting like a lump in Italy's stomach ever since they guards had taunted them about their new friend. "Why didn't they kill us? Isn't that what they wanted in Austin? To kill us, forever?"

"They were not expecting us," Germany admitted. "They expected to capture America only. As such, they do not have the materials on hand to copy the method they employed in Austin. And America. . ." he hesitated. His citizen hadn't known everything, but he'd been a smart man, smart enough to look at the specialists assembled on the island and draw his own conclusions about what was going on.

"They are experimenting on him," Germany revealed unhappily. "They appear to have been lacking detailed information about our kind, so they are using this opportunity to better understand us. There is a doctor here, brought in specially for this mission. I am uncertain if they will keep America alive when they are done with him."

"Experimenting?" Italy whispered in horror. Memories flashed briefly in his mind, leaders who had begged him to allow them to just _explore_ his capabilities more, to see if there was some knowledge they could gain that could benefit the greater good. He'd never agreed, never allowed them to pursue the dark desires he could feel lurking in their minds. They were never truly thinking about the so-called greater good.

Italy suspected Germany was remembering similar conversations.

"We have to rescue him, Germany," Italy exclaimed. "America saved us in Austin. We cannot let them hurt him any more!"

"Agreed." Germany hefted one of the rifles, a plan forming in his mind. "There are many guards between us and him, and then between us and escape. But if we are cautious, I believe we can work around their numbers."

"We will be like Japan's ninjas!" Italy exclaimed. Tossing the duffle to Germany, Italy hurried over to pick up America's cavalry saber. He studied the bloody blade for a moment, frowning, then wiped it clean on one of the body's shirts. Stripping the laces from one of the guards' boots, he threaded them through the loops on the sheath and hung the weapon on his belt. Finally, he turned and faced Germany, planting his fists on his hips. "I'm ready, Captain!"

* * *

 ** _Update schedule, as of 7-24-2018!_**

 _This story has not been abandoned! Some MAJOR Real Life things reared their head back in November 2017 and interrupted our plans to finished revising and posting. After almost nine months (at the time of this update), we're finally starting to get back in the groove of things. It's a slow ramp up, however, so I can't give a good timetable for when the next chapter will be posted._

 _Sorry for the delay and thanks for reading! We'll be back soon!_


	15. Chapter 15

_Holy cow, an update? How cool!_

 _Check the notes after the chapter for more information on the delay and what the update schedule will be for this story._

 **WARNING: DESCRIPTIONS OF MEDICAL PROCEDURES, TORTURE**

* * *

The harsh fluorescent light bounced off the peeling pale green walls, throwing Aleksey's desperate flight into sharp relief. His feet pounded against the unyielding concrete floors.

The metal door gave way as Aleksey slammed into it, the blood dripping relentlessly down his arm smearing the cold, dented surface a bright, gleaming, succulent red like the coating on a candy apple.

He turned sharply up the hallway, gasping, gasping, dragging oxygen into greedy airways, never once breaking stride. Finally, he burst through a plain wood door into the primary command center.

"They're all dead!"

"What do you mean they're all dead?" Tosetti demanded, face like flint.

"Syd, slaboumnyy, gave the Freak a sword."

"And the prisoners?" Tosetti questioned, a look tor firy on his face.

"I do not know. I did not- did not stay to find out." Aleksey leaned back, resting heavily on the table, tremors coursing through him from exertion and blood loss. He cradled his injured arm close to himself as it continued to bleed profusely, the blood landing with soft, wet plops and seeping into the thin industrial carpeting. He'd never thought the freak from Italy could be so vicious.

"So you've told us everything you know?" Tosetti casually withdrew his pistol.

"Da."

"So, in summation, you stood by like a moron while your comrade released a prisoner and gave him a weapon, and then, when the prisoner started killing everyone, you turned tail and ran like a gutless coward," came Tosetti's blasé recounting.

Despite his injury and flagging energy, Aleksey's nostrils flared, his eyes aflame as he retorted, "I am no cow-"

 _BAM._

Aleksey's body collapsed to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring fixedly ahead under the neat, gunpowder-stippled hole that now graced his forehead.

From behind Tosetti, another soldier shot to his feet. "The hell you go and do that for? As if we're not shorthanded enough already," Bobby shouted.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd done your goddamn job. Your job, your only job, was to put together a group of competent men who could do whatever jobs we assigned. But instead, you dragged along that damn useless nephew of yours, and now he's gone and gotten himself and the other men you chose killed, and if you hadn't been here, you'd probably be dead too."

"If I hadn't been here, I would have been there to stop it."

"You shouldn't have had to be there! We need people that can do their damn jobs without a babysitter! You're better off anyway. Syd would have gotten you killed sooner or later. Now that this has happened, maybe you'll choose your people more carefully in the future. Because rest assured, if you don't, you'll be the next one lying on the floor with a bullet through your brain. You're damn good at your job Bobby, but if the people you pick ever jeopardize another mission like this again, you will have outlived your usefulness. Our objectives, our mission, is too important to be screwed up because of stupidity, and I will not tolerate another failure like this one.

"Now, let's move. This is a goddamn fucking island. If we move quickly, maybe we can contain this mess. Round up whatever extra men you can and start searching for the prisoners. Tell them to start in the hzxzsolding area and then work back to where the other Subject is being tested. It's reasonable to think they will try to rescue him, so maybe, just maybe, we can trap them in Medical. Be sure everyone is armed and do not, under any circumstances, underestimate our enemy. They are very old and possess the experience that comes with that age along with some very interesting abilities. This is your opportunity to show you are not the fool your men turned out to be."

"Yes sir," Bobby ground out, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room intent on catching the freak bastards.

Tosetti picked up a nearby walkie-talkie, "Attention all personnel, the prisoners have escaped and are armed. Be on the lookout. We suspect that they will try freeing the other, so all security needs to converge on the medical wing. Over and out."

Quickly turning the knob to switch to a private channel, he began transmitting, "Marcus, come in."

"Boss, what the hell is happenin' man?"

"Syd fucked up. He's dead and so are all the others in his unit. Now the prisoners are free on the island and armed. We have to get Junior and the doctor to a secure location now."

"I don't think the doctor lady gunna be too keen on stoppin' her work."

"Marcus, you have my permission to hog tie her and drag her out by her hair if that's what it takes. Just get her to the hangar, so we can get her and Junior out of here."

"Copy that." There was a brief pause. "Boss, Bobby, he dead too?"

"No. He was with me planning for our departure, not that those plans make a damn bit of difference now. Get the doctor. Get to the Hangar. Over and out."

Tosetti looked at Lord Wallace, standing just a few feet away looking shocked and queasy as his eyes occasionally drifted to the dead body on the floor. Tosetti snorted in derision. "Let's go. We should be able to contain this, but I can't risk you or the doctor getting hurt, so we're getting off this island. Damn nightmare."

Junior looked up at Tosetti, ready to protest this departure, but thought twice about that when he saw the look on the security agent's face. He did, however, feel the need to address an issue he had overheard during that last radio transmission.

"I believe we've discussed that I dislike being called Junior," he stated haughtily.

"You have discussed it at me on a number of occasions, and, as I don't answer to you, which has also been discussed on several other occasions, each time I have ignored you. We need to go now." With that, Tosetti grabbed his arm and proceeded to escort him to the private jet that awaited them in the hangar.

* * *

Matthew's vision blurred as the pain intensified.

 _"Alright people, I think we're done in the abdominal cavity. Let's move onto the thoracic region please."_

He staggered the last few steps up the stairwell before reaching the door to his floor. Desperate to get back to his room before the pain completely consumed him, he had bypassed the elevator; he didn't think he could wait the requisite amount of time for the elevator car to arrive without potentially causing a scene.

 _Marje could barely contain the elation thrilling through her. The examination so far had been incredible. The data they had gathered so far was fascinating. She grasped the gleaming scalpel firmly, sank the razor sharp edge into the flesh right atop the breast bone, and pulled down in one slow, precise motion, enjoying the sight of the rich red blood that came seeping up out of the fresh incision._

Matthew's hand trembled as he tried desperately to slip the key card into the slot. Fresh pain seared through him suddenly, the key card dropping forgotten to the floor as he clutched at his chest. 'Why, why is this happening again? Why now? It's been so long since the last time I was like this.' Steadying himself against the wall, he gasped for breath as a ripping sensation filled his chest.

 _The skin and muscle now pulled back, Dr. Jenkins had her first look at the anomaly's heart. She watched in fascination as it continued to beat despite the torture they were putting its owner through. It was truly marvelous. "Prepare the bone saw. I want a closer look at the lungs."_

Prussia entered Canada's room just in time to watch as The Great White North collapsed onto the floor screaming in pain. He rushed to his fallen friend's side and searched desperately for the source of Canada's agonized screams.

 _BAM_

 _Silence._

 _Dr. Jenkins immediately killed the power to the bone saw when she heard the door to her sterile operating arena slam open. "What are you doing you Neanderthal?" she practically screamed at Marcus. "You are compromising the integrity of these proceedings." She set the bone saw aside quickly and addressed her staff, "Cover the specimen now. We have to reduce contamination as much as possible." They snapped into action immediately._

 _Soft whimpers now filled the hotel room, and, while they were painful to listen to, it was a relief that the excruciating screams had ceased._

 _Marcus never broke stride as he approached her. "We are leaving now."_

 _"The hell we are. I am not yet finished with my examination. I was assured there would be ample time to fully assess the specimen."_

Prussia hesitated to move Canada from the floor as tremors continued to jolt through his pain wracked body. But the soft bed would offer at least some comfort, so carefully, ever so gently, Prussia took Matthew in his arms and moved him the short distance to the bed.

 _"And you would have had that time if the other freaks hadn't escaped. Tosetti says we're leaving, so we're leaving. You can come with me, or I can drag you all the way to the hangar. Your choice."_

 _"You will not lay your filthy hands on me."_

 _"Then let's go."_

With quick, careful movements, in his continued efforts to lessen Canada's suffering and discomfort, Prussia stripped off Canada's restrictive suit and redressed him in warm, soft sweats and a soft, cotton shirt emblazoned with the Northern Nation's favorite hockey team.

 _In a move that took Marcus by surprise, the doctor reached out and ripped the walkie-talkie from where it was clipped to his belt. Depressing the button, she spoke quickly, "Tosetti, what the bloody hell is happening?"_

 _Tosetti's voice was tinny as it came out of the small device, "I'm sure Marcus has explained exactly what is happening. You will come with him to the hangar now so I can ensure your continued safety, or he will bring you here by whatever means necessary."_

 _"Or you can do your damn job, catch the other two freaks, and let me do my job," She snapped back._

 _"Doctor, this is not a negotiation. Marcus, if she's not moving in 15 seconds, drag her out. Over and out."_

 _She let out a primal scream of pure fury at the walkie-talkie before hurling it across the room and into the wall, the shattered pieces clattering to the floor. She snapped off her gloves while she snapped out orders. "Prepare the body for transport. Seal as many of the wounds as you can before you are evacuated. Once this has been dealt with, I don't want any delay in moving the body to the next laboratory. Damn over-cautious security guard," she finished to herself as she preceded Marcus out the door toward the hangar, the security officer following close behind._

Prussia sat helplessly next to Canada as the other nation continued to whimper and shake. He needed to fix this. But how? He didn't know what to do.

* * *

 _Scrrrrch._

The walkie-talkie crackled to life in Germany's hand. "Attention all personnel, the prisoners have escaped and are armed. Be on the lookout. We suspect that they will try freeing the other. All building security personnel are to converge on the surgical center. Over and out."

"Germany, what do we do? They know we have escaped," Italy questioned, palpable fear in his voice.

"They would have found out eventually. We must stick to the plan. We will find America, and we will escape," Germany declared grimly. He glared briefly at the walkie-talkie before shoving it into a pocket.

"But Germany, we don't even know where they are holding him," Italy said. "And now all the guards are moving there to stop us."

"Then we follow them. They will lead us straight to him." As he spoke, Germany slung a bag of weapons supplies over his back and started selecting weapons.

"That seems so dangerous. Germany, there are so many more of them than there are of us. I want to help America. I want to rescue him like he rescued us. But how?"

Germany crossed the short distance between them, so they stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye. "I know it is frightening, and if I could do this alone, I would, but I need your help. America was also facing impossible odds when he rescued us, so we cannot let the risk stop us. We must be our very best selves, and fight for our new friend. I need your help."

Italy stood stunned, absorbing Germany's words. Germany never asked him, Italia, for help. He told him to go away, to shut up, and to be serious, but never before had he asked for his help to fight. So Italy gathered all his strength, all his courage, all his resolve, and responded in the only way he knew how, "You can always count on me, Germany!"

Pleased, Germany gave a single nod. "Good, then let's go rescue America."

Germany eased open the door of the the room that had imprisoned them, and as quietly as they could manage, they slipped out, moving down the hallway intent on their mission.

They crept with speed and stealth through the harshly lit hallways. Germany listened carefully for signs of a commotion, desperate to tail a guard to America's location. It was a foolish plan really, and very quite possibly a trap, but with no other way of finding where he was being held, they had no choice.

It seemed fate was with them when a few minutes later they heard two guards coming up an intersecting hallway. He opened the nearest door, ushered Italy in, and then entered, pulling the door nearly closed behind him, leaving just enough of a crack so that he could tell when they had fully passed. Once he was sure they were a sufficient distanced passed them, he and Italy began the dangerous task of following them. Fortunately, the two men were so intent on following orders and reaching their assigned destination, they failed to detect their shadows.

Just as Germany was beginning to believe that they would be able to follow these two all the way to America, they approached a bank of elevators. One elevator dinged its arrival, and Germany backpedaled quickly retreating back behind a corner and out of sight.

The heavy tread of several men's boots echoed off the hallway walls.

Germany's mind raced as he considered the situation. There was no way they could hope to follow that many men and hope to remain undetected, but the presence of that many men exiting onto this floor meant America was on this level, and, possibly close. Their best option was to allow the men to completely clear the area, and then go the same direction they had. Maybe they could determine exactly where America was, backtrack to a stairwell, go up a floor, and then circle around and come up on the place from behind, taking their enemies by surprise. He nodded to himself. It was the best plan they had.

He waited a few moments longer, listening closely. When he was certain they were well ahead of them, he motioned Italy to move.

Germany picked up their pace. The order that had come over the radio had been clear. All security was converging on America's location, so there shouldn't be anyone to spot them now. Everyone should be in front of them. At this point, speed was more of an ally than stealth. So they moved quickly, down the hallway, around a corner, up another hallway, rounded another corner… then froze.

The hair on the back of Germany's neck stood straight up. He stood, stock still, a fluorescent light flickering, humming, flickering overhead.

Italy reached for the hilt of the sword at his side, grasping it tightly. "Germany, I have a very bad feeling," he whispered quietly.

"As do I," came the quiet reply.

They had moved quickly to their destination, but now that they were here it was quite clearly a trap. They had seen no one, heard no one. The hum of the light overhead was the only sound that accompanied their soft breathing. And, right in front of them, a set of double doors, one slightly ajar. Certainly America was behind it. It was the door they had been looking for, and they wanted them to go through it. What other explanation could there be for the fact that every other door they had passed on the way here had been clearly, completely, tightly shut while this one stood open, ever so slightly, beckoning them in.

Germany's mind flew through strategy after strategy, plan after plan, only to come to one very simple conclusion: if America was behind that door, they were going through it.

Slowly, each step carefully measured, Germany moved toward it, Italy close behind him. Reaching out, he set his hand against the surface and pushed.

The door swung open.

* * *

 _Pain._

 _So much pain._

 _Burned, ripped, sliced, broken._

 _He'd never hurt like this before. Make it stop MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP._

Dimly, Alfred could feel restraints on his wrists and ankles. There was something over his face, hissing, the feel of moving air over his mouth and nose, sweet yet foul smelling. Everything was fuzzy, distant and remote. Everything but horrific agony and the sound of bones being snapped, metal hitting metal, and machines beeping and screaming.

He wanted to scream, wanted to force the hands touching him, HURTING HIM, away. Wanted to break them and stop them and make sure this never ever happened again.

But he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't even blink.

He didn't know why this was happening. He didn't know anything but pain.

Then-

Everything stopped.

Agony still tore at him like a million swarming fire ants but the hands touching him disappeared. The metal stopped. The machines were suddenly silent.

There were the voices, vague and indistinct but the tone had changed. More hurried, frantic.

Then-

Movement. Shouts. Gunshots. Screaming.

The oppressive weight of his merciless torturers vanished. Things crashed, clanging as they fell. Footsteps and the sound of clothing being torn then everything faded away.

Alfred lay limp on the metal surface he was strapped to. He stared helplessly into the lights overhead, unable to look away. Just as he'd been unable to look away from the masked monsters cutting unconcerned into his flesh.

The door, far away and out of sight, suddenly swung open again.

A new face appeared, tanned, brown eyes, brown hair, a long curl. Blood was splattered across one cheek and the scent of sulfur wafted around him.

New hands touched him, gently instead of brutally. Hands were on his head, his face.

The sickly sweet smell suddenly vanished and the weight on his face disappeared. Then the straps on his limbs started to come loose.

"It's going to be okay, America. Germany and I are here to rescue you!"

* * *

With one final kick, Germany launched the body of the last of the enemy soldiers into the wall. He swept his eyes across the makeshift surgical room and out the doors to the bodies lying in the room beyond. Their enemy had thought themselves prepared to face them. And if they'd been mortal, he and Italy would surely have died. But they were not mortal. They were Nations. Already he could feel the bullet wounds dotting his torso beginning to mend. It wouldn't be long before he was fully healed.

Germany turned back to face America and had to fight back a gag. Bile rose in his throat, forcing him to swallow the burning acid back down.

America's body was shattered. Numerous bones had been broken, his skin peeled back at various points, and burns of varying degrees of severity littered his entire body. There were very few spots that had escaped the deliberate, horrifically cruel violence.

Flitting back and forth next to America was Italy. The Mediterranean nation's skin had turned ashen and he looked like he was struggling not to throw up. But his talented hands, so used to holding a paintbrush or sculpting glass, didn't hesitate for a moment as they worked to mend the damage. Glancing up at Germany, Italy wordlessly pointed to America's left arm (broken, the skin peeled back to expose the bone) and the younger Nation hurried to help.

The two Nations worked as quickly as they dared to staple, bandage, and brace America's shattered body back together. The ailing Nation's eyes had finally closed and his entire body had started to tremble as more and more feeling and control returned to him.

It was taking far too long, Germany knew. The enemy was regrouping as they worked and the more time they spent working on America the harder it would be for them to escape. But he didn't hesitate, didn't pause the healing work he and Italy were performing. They would need America to be able to move, even a little bit, in order to escape the forces no doubt gathering outside. More importantly, Germany couldn't bring himself to just take off while America was in such a state.

Finally, their desperate work came to an end and Germany had managed to find some morphine, which he quickly administered to help dull the pain America was in. Once the drug began to take effect, America finally cracked open eyes that had long since fallen shut and looked at them.

"What? Happen?" he managed to croak.

"Terrorists," Germany replied briefly. "Same group as Austin."

"We're escaping," Italy added. "All of us." He looked up at Germany. "Can you find him some clothes?" he asked softly, tilting his head at America.

With a quick nod, Germany turned back to the body lying on the floor against the wall. Shoving aside a cart sitting near the body, Germany got to work stripping the fatigues.

Italy, meanwhile, kept a gentle hand on America's, careful not to exert any downward pressure or do anything that could be construed as restraining. "We're going to get out," he promised. "You, me, and Germany." Fingers tighten on his and America's eyes closed again. Italy kept talking, promising over and in different ways that they were going to leave, get out, escape, and get somewhere safe.

Germany finally stood up and moved away from the body of the guard he had killed, the shirt, pants, boots, and socks bundled up in his hands.

Glancing at the clothing, Italy gently brushed the fingers of his free hand against America's face. "You need to get dressed now," Italy ordered softly. "Germany has clothes for you. We'll help."

Alfred took a deep breath when he felt Italy's hand brush against his cheek, heard the gentle yet firm order. The pain was manageable now, as distant and fuzzy as everything but the pain had been earlier. His mind shied away from the too recent memory of what he'd just been through and he forced himself to slowly sit up. Hands, one pair small and soft while the others were large and calloused, both strong, supported him and steadied him. These hands, unlike the ones earlier, were comforting and made him feel safe.

Germany and Italy were gentle but hurried as they helped him dress. They did their best to avoid putting pressure on his wounds but it was impossible to completely avoid doing so. The green camo was confusing for several moments until Alfred realized exactly where they had come from. Another shudder wracked his body. Dead man's clothes, dead man's boots.

Alfred took a deep breath and, with Germany's support, slowly pushed himself off the table. The world swam, his vision turned staticky, and he felt himself sway - but not fall. Germany held on to him and kept him steady until everything felt stable once more. When he fully level-headed (or as much as he could with morphine flooding his veins), Alfred also realized that Italy had slipped around the table and had finished pulling the pants up to his waist.

Dead man's pants.

He'd worn worse.

Once he was certain Alfred wouldn't immediately topple over, Germany slowly stepped back and picked up the bag he'd tossed on the floor earlier. Italy began to gather up medical supplies which he added to their bag. He knew the morphine would wear off soon, but Alfred could also tell that his body was already healing. Damage that resulted from national incidents lingered for weeks or months but anything else was practically incidental. He would be fully physically recovered in a week or two, assuming they managed to escape.

"Where are we," Alfred asked, voice scratchy hoarse, as he watched Germany rearm himself.

"The Johnston Atoll," Germany grimly reported. "The terrorists set up shop in an abandoned building."

"Johnston," Alfred muttered. His brow furrowed. Johnston was . . . "This is mine," he realized, blinking as his sluggish mind began to work. "There's an airstrip. We landed here."

Germany nodded. "I am hoping there is a plane here still. We will find it and commandeer it."

Alfred braced himself on the medical table he'd been strapped to. The Johnston Atoll. He had been here before, decades ago. He thought hard, mind racing to recall the shape of the island and the structures built on it. His mind opened, instinctively reaching into the floor beneath his feet - and the land below that. "We're in the Joint Operations Center," he realized. He could see it now, both in his memory and distantly through the land itself. "North end of the runway. The hanger's nearby."

Relief flooded through Germany. They hadn't been able to look outside and find a plane or hanger. He knew what his misguided citizen knew about the island but he'd gone from the plane to the decontamination facility in the back of a truck. He hadn't seen enough of the outdoors to give Germany a good feel for the space. America's knowledge could be what saved them.

"I'm glad you remember," Italy said in response to America's statement. He looked relieved. "We'll definitely get off this island now!"

"Yes, we will," Germany agreed. He gave America a critical once over. He could tell the other man was still in pain. He was favoring one leg and looked ready to fall over. Fresh blood was already appearing on some of the bandages. But there was already more color in his face than before and the glazed look of agony had sharpened to greater awareness.

Germany drew one of his stolen pistols. He wouldn't need the rifle until they were outside. "Let's go."

* * *

Prussia sat, staring. By all counts, whatever had been plaguing Canada had, at least for now, stopped, and finally, mercifully, he had fallen asleep, though pain still creased his brow beneath a fringe of blonde hair. The entire episode hadn't lasted all that long, comparatively speaking, but the Germanic Nation was drained. The experience had been harrowing. Something was clearly wrong, and he needed answers. Tiredly, he reached for Canada's phone, typed in the passcode, and located the number of the only person who might be able to offer those answers.

 _"This is Jennifer Williams. I'm either not available right now or on another call. Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can."_

"This is Prussia. We need to talk. In person. The headache is back and more. I think… Something is wrong, Frau. And you're going to tell me what's going on."

* * *

 _I'm so thrilled to finally have this chapter posted! I know how frustrating it must have been to spent over a year seeing Star Wars stories go up while this one was languishing. Needless to say, the last year has some crazy medical stuff going on but things are finally starting to settle down into a more predictable routine and I hope to be able to work on this story more._

 _I can't promise a regular update schedule, but I will continue to revise and post the remaining chapters. This story WILL be completed, I promise you._

 _Thank you for sticking with me! All the best._


End file.
